the poet in me sleeps
a restless slumber
as the night falls into rhythm of my
eyeballs frying
in unshed tears.
why
do night always seem
interesting
and dangerous
sometimes
deeply embarrassing
yet sometimes
surprisingly soothing.
the lady in red
pumps more screams
into silence
as sun roars
sending tremor of spilled yolk
all over horizon.
in wrinkled bed
lay I
a clot
of poison
and ambiguity.
but hopes
never die in monochrome
as the life evaporates
colour from vision
hope paints
something bright to the surface
naked at times
but a blessing at the right time.
___________________
The full stops are the beginning of another vignette. Or another realm. Read at your imagination as there are no punctuation marks. There is a lot of meaning in this poem and I am happy about it, tbh. Which I am not on most of my poems. Very well then.
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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...
