PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Amazing how he moves
Flies into the air
The body curls upon itself
Like an inverted coma.

Black on black
Angrily clambering
Unfurls again
A shaft of white light
To land on rose petals
Precise and gentle
Feather.
Penelope

Tonight
The moon is dumb
It never spoke to me anyway
Tonight its bland face looks tarnished
Brushed over by racing clouds.
Heavy laden with moisture
I shall never see.
So I shall remain parched
For another season or two
Or maybe three.
I have no name
Flag
Or insignia
No Godly ichors
Only air
In my veins.
Icy cold,
Frozen,
Embalmed in a marble tomb.
Will some heat melt it?
Will it gush and spout?
I do not know.
Waiting is my game.