This is for all you who fell into my web-
The web I never wove and yet spent all my days weaving.
For you this is a collection of hushed apologies
Murmured vigorously under my breath.
So quiet, so rushed,
that it sounds like the crushed wings of dying insects.
This is for the unlucky sailor who heard my call-
The call of a hoarse and unpracticed siren.
For you this is a collection of fuck yous
Typed voraciously with venom and vehemence
Because at the end of every goddamned day
I’m just watching the dying of the muse.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Prophecies
PoetryRain falls in crosshatch across the lamp lit sky, splattering the asphalt ground with splashes of reflected light. I look at the sketchbook in my hand and trace the penciled rain and smudged glow. It was shit. I let to book fly onto the muddy grass...
