I push the moon
back into night's bosom,
blanket her in black mass
and recite few verses
from the tears shed every night;
the moaning cathedral music
soothes inner nerves,
fidgeting and conspiring
against my ribcage;
but the pallor of my heart
built a mausoleum
on garbled sighs,
an empty grave;
to which I am to return.
but as the night blooms
into petal-less flowers;
I know I should leave
soon
or not too soon,
when it's time
for my chariot
to come.
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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...
