Endless stories gyrate in the circle of time
as this cyclone engulfs everything that dares to face it.
The emotions break into pieces.
Unloved cities change in distracted conversations,
Ballads bleed in berry bushes,
as a lone woman passes away in the hands of Satan.
The shades of grey and black faint
into the hues of time.
Shriveled violets are dumped on her corpse;
None cries, none screams, none breaks down.
She's left purple songs under the grey sky.
These darker songs
open on a summer morn—
The bruises on this tender skin
and the continuous utterance, "Everything will go fine."
On bad days, she dreamed of nights
she stained herself with his love and went insane.
Pomegranate lips, daisy fields,
cigarette tales scribbled notes
The glimmer of light through the buildings
remains in our hands
as the cyclone keeps coming nearer,
messing with us, killing souls filled with hope and sorrow.
The building still flickers in evening lonesomeness.
This cyclone doesn't know
the bruises we have got from it.
Yet, it stains history with blood and bones.
This heart's now weak yet smiling,
like the way violets are dying on her still chest.
A lot more bruises can it bear
when the sun's still in the sky.
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A/N: However, I must say, cyclones bring us a lot to learn from, don't they? However, reading about them sounds too tedious to that star in the top right corner. Why not fill it with happiness by pressing it?
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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 ||
