The world is in mid-bleach
everyone divided
I'm sorry
has become a mantra
poetry is a vast and lonely land
haunted by scenes from horrific wars
or the most beautiful flower
held by a trembling hand
I think they become pumpkins
yellow has always followed me
cast a smile where raven's wings
would shadow dappled sunlight
I enquire of the raven what he seeks
he asks the same question as you
are you obssessed with the idea of death
isn't every artist intrigued
by the promise of infinite sleep
the maybes of a supposed calm
an opportunity to be still
no longer dance to a discordant tune
broken does not mean madness
madness does not mean toxic
we only ever want to be loved
I'm sorry
has become my own mantra
'tis a bane of poetry to ramble
a waste of concise metaphor
yet the willing presence of a journal
begs that you purge
write it out
lest soul sinks beyond light
write it out
lest heartbeat stills
write it out
lest unspoken lines strangle whys
utopia is personal
move around the glitch
today is a different sky
to yesterday
Poetry©Words Among Trees
Image - Pixabay - free domain
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