Poetry falls through the skylight,
Brighten the other side of my bed,
Extension of my fingers
Hoping to embrace
Warmth, only face
A secluded space of crumpled bed sheet.
She has already moved.
Moved beyond.
Beyond every morning
Wet with dews
Comes the long delay
Comes the slow fire of desire
To see her.
I appeased the hunger of eyes
And, pick up the poetry lying on the floor.
.
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Comments: 7
Write on.
Thanks for sharing.
An instructional guidance piece on going for the gold with pen to paper ! I assure all at first in this career, it is not the immediate income I am after; rather the immediate gratification I get when someone reads a piece of mine and smiles, laughs, sighs or cries. It also is an opportunity for me to absorb constructive criticism which . . .
Click to see where criticism takes this writer
toothless for your advantage ;)