I push the moon
back into night's bosom,
blanket her in black mass
and recite few verses
from the tears shed every night;
the moaning cathedral music
soothes inner nerves,
fidgeting and conspiring
against my ribcage;
but the pallor of my heart
built a mausoleum
on garbled sighs,
an empty grave;
to which I am to return.
but as the night blooms
into petal-less flowers;
I know I should leave
soon
or not too soon,
when it's time
for my chariot
to come.
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stains
PuisiA collection of musings from my heart that doesn't stick to a certain genre but mostly writes on heartbreak, depression, sadness, loneliness... of course masked under heavy abstract and metaphorical imageries. It might not be your simple poem to...
