[ 9. 24 ]
night is when you'll hear her cry
she cries at night to clear her mind
sweet little nightengale,
softly singing words from souls
who mirror her own
if you were to hear her
that is, if she lets you nearer,
you'd hear the nostalgia for
unwavering joy,
of which she's devoid.
sun knows her body,
knows the mask that's so loud it screams,
but moon knows her heart,
knows she's more than she seems
noise is fine for her days,
feigning happiness, becoming one with the crowd, losing her sense of self
are the cards she plays
but at night,
as she ponders
she'll need something stronger than
noise
to replace her lost
joys.
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
