Perhaps, my sky is so blue because,
it witnesses my blue hours.
And, carries my whispered sadness and jaded longings.
Is it tiring, to bear
Our empty tears,
In loaded clouds?
Heaving mists upon,
Us.
Giving us back,
The despair it had absolved.
My sky dies a little,
With every thunderstorm,
Breaking and lightning,
Our liquor shelves.
Fermenting fruits into crystals.
That burn our throats and,
Eases our conscience of the
Mistakes we are prone to make.
The crystals, that dance on
Pine cones and pine leaves and pine trees.
The crystals we dance upon,
Fragile.
With bleeding feet, upon
Our jagged, ugly masks
That we wear to have
Some fun, some rhythm,
That doesn't resonate with our
Flat line heartbeats.
The reddened crystals lie,
Beneath our broken jazz,
And we all still sing our blues.
YOU ARE READING
Mirage.
PoetryDisclaimer : I do not own the pictures, used with my poems. They are the property of their creators.
