The novel was a good read, a really good one.
Except for the middle pages, how unclassical.
They were supposed to meet in the lavender snow
in some Cambridge bookfair.
However, it appeared that the city out of the book
was shivering in Christmas snow.
The fantasies fell as snowflakes,
stamped in her heavy rainboots.
You're the dumb writer without a cup of coffee—
holding a cheap pen, staring around blankly.
You once wanted to pen your past
in a whole, fat book.
It turned out that your past's now dead in heavy snowfall,
faded in unclustered snow, how pale for pity.
The words, now poisoned, are struggling to get out of here;
Heaps of snowy ashes, flickering orange flames.
You don't have your world anywhere, inside or out.
———————————
A/N: Let's give him/her a vote of support!
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 ||
