PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Black sticky fingers, from amassing tobacco leaves,

are leaving stains on my white bread crust.

Countless sunbeams are coloring aging calendars,

where sentences are left unfinished.

And no one is at home.

I am where the moon flickers on the candle stick.

Warm lava-like substance is taking me finger by finger.

I am making paraffin gloves,

while listening to the laughs from the past.



Prospering airport glass cell, high class spot,

is serving the special for the day-

suspended lungs and roasted tongues.

Limited sits, reservation is required to join

the shadowed bodies, jammed in finger talk.

Rowdy eyes, draining clammy drips,

are waiting for appropriate arrival.



My glossy hands are tickling the candle flame.

I have no sense of heat, no fear of fire;

there is no waiting line in the hall of death.

Drops of wax are sealing my memories’ track.

My tears don’t disturb the blaze;

they dry before they reach the skin.

So, we pull the steam, deep within the selfish “I”...

Will that sweet poisoned sentiment ever expire?