Summoned by thunder
tear back the curtains, press close
the show will explodes.
Heat brings in the haze,
draws it from the horizon
until the sky cracks.
Inking in the days
to count up the ones left blank
and fill them up too.
Summoned by thunder
tear back the curtains, press close
the show will explodes.
Heat brings in the haze,
draws it from the horizon
until the sky cracks.
Inking in the days
to count up the ones left blank
and fill them up too.
Words trickle too fast,
floods of imagination;
leaves only ink blots.
If I could listen
to the ghosts within the mist…
I might just go mad.
My wardrobe divide
does not account for seasons.
Cold? Just grin and bare.
I must be clutter
finding my way into rooms
to watch you shun spring.
You tracked mud footsteps
across everything I own.
You said “this is spring.”
I kept Autumn close,
wrote to it with summer words-
not that winter knew.
Summer surprised us,
trust England not to expect
sunshine in July.
You must be logged in to post a comment.