On the first time
that I tried to spill poetry in my lips,
all of the figurative languages evanesced
as the lightning began to enclasp
the slivers of my words.
The stars began to hide
underneath my bed
while the starlit skies transformed
into a pitch-black expanse.
Brimming with emptiness,
all of my favorite rhymes
died at that moment.
When I tried to lasso
the moon with my poem,
I caught nothing
but a handful of scars,
lingering on the cracks
of my broken verses.
Hollow reality seeping
through the incarnadine page;
Poetry is the language
of the indefinite spaces,
linking with each other
to create an eloquent
universe inside.
—MLD
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
