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

promises.

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s