When my pen
hits the paper's gasp,
a falling spreading of
notions throughout the
transporter's telling
as broken translation
lost in twisted confusion
my eraser gazes
each word to
be swept from secrecy
at his faltering turn
pink from deluges of
inhumane remorse
from calling friction
Each second picked
from paper the stars
haven't taught
each flower budding
in midspring's glow
even the red blood moon
casting a silent shadow
imperfection is the single
description of this place
flawless, a makeshift home.
YOU ARE READING
The absence of time: a poetry collection
Poetrymy notebook of thoughts and ideas, etc. I call myself a poet not because I am one, but I aspire to be. (Hence the username)
