rest before storm was reassuring;
just like my fingertip
dipped in blood,
spewing threats to the northern star-
constant as it is,
never parting my shadow.
for once,
I decided to search my being
in the pimpled moon,
hung high above
the altar;
and I found my dainty corpse
handing in sonnets,
dripping wet nothing into the pool of poetry,
echoing through stillness of my chapel;
dusty with loneliness.
I tie my eyelids
into elapsed hours of an hourglass-
spilling unsaid notes
of never-ending reverie;
and it got me stippled
into floating needles
of a time machine,
I was scared to hear my own laughter.
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stains
PoetryA 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...
