The coarse ink of lies soaks your brief happiness.
A gusty wind shivers the window grills
as it came to a standstill.
A loveless morning over stale coffee beans.
Small talk on plastic cups, red fire, and blue-green dreams.
A few straws of hay
mess the little room;
The world comes to a fragmented scent of dirt and jasmines.
A streak of faint light comes on and off my silence—
The broken beats.
Your illness finds shelter in the purple glow.
The dusky birds find their way toward the impending darkness
as the shrikes and screams faint into endless shades.
The next time I see you, I won't walk away as I did.
But the words would flow away in bus-stop greys
on a bleak summer evening.
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A/N: Before they flow away, why not wrap a vote with a goodbye gift wrapper?
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
