atop a birch
sings a nightingale-
like petals falling
on soft snow
the mellow
in her voice
carve rich tales
into bleak obsidian plates
on my heart.
•
the shadows
slinking behind my soul
like charcoal swabs,
distinct my rhythm
from the declining verses
on blackened stone path
yet, I remain
a soliloquy
stippled,
with a meager metaphor
styling my impending doom.
••
the song I sing
with crushed vowels
between smashed teeth,
compose a tantalizing
diary entry for them to hear
yet, I am doused with
crippled critics,
the size of a mountain,
unable to wash
the paint from my bones.
•••
for I may be a canvas,
with rich bold strokes
of hues illuminating
how I look,
but...
the strokes in between my skin
never embellish the brass rings
concealing;
a whimpering crimson mass.
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stains
PoesíaA 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...
