Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Master-piece

And I found a hell in her,
a planet that became barren,
that used to teem with life,
that wore happy like spring
and promise like sunrise.

Where every lungful of oxygen
used to be sharply exhaled,
forming weightless laughter
the sort which echoes
in confined spaces
longer than a smile does.
How dulcet a sound
that has turn to destruction
with the most marred of instruments.
A toggle on the world's silence.

When feeling the weight
of her head on my fragile shoulder
sent anvils and anchors on my heart,
hornets stinging my ribcage,
begging to take more of me.
And the smile on her face,
a painting torn to pieces,
that I, the artist with no training
burned in my wake.
You will get better.
This isn't over.

Letter From an Old Poet

 I Day two thousand  one hundred and ninety-one. Our little blue marble has made one modest revolution  around our honey-sweet sun  si...