the city sleeps in color
as I sip desecrated poetry
in this unholy hour of the demons
that climb down from the plum sky
to deprive my sanity
the petrichor numbs me
as I swig charcoal dust into the manuscript,
with hues oozing from my bones;
I barely breathe,
as I make love to the palette
that never loves me back
as I finish confronting
the tall ivory smirks
on the horizon,
I snap shut my prayer
and leans to the window sill,
still sipping desecrated promises
from the moon that hides behind the grey monochrome
and sniggers;
as the city sleeps in color
and I breathe in poisonous dreams
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stains
PoetryA 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...
