That which is broken

That which is broken

now sits

bent in my jacket pocket

squeezed into a mush

of feeling and paper bits.

Spilt blue ink

turns the river green

the river of your

belonging across my body

spread vaguely thin

where shall you go

with this crackling stream?

where shall you rest

your marauding gleam?

These pebbles under your feet

now speak a language coy

words unheard of, a joy

unparalleled, undivided

unseemly, lopsided

begins to muster

a nocturnal prowl

like a sleepless owl

in the chimes of night.

I can hear your cries

the lonesome sighs

of having loved in vain

driven insane, by

a new harvest, their

fickle bounties and see-saw


I look at a window

there sits a shadow, in the night

light, once a human, a sonnet

now a eulogy, waiting on a corpse,

a casket, all the women, their veils,

and the men in suits, mourning

a brook.

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