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Brittle, broken, beaten
I carry in my chest
a moldy stone.
It used to flutter once
and beat harmoniously.
Medusa's hair,
coiling around this planet
finally found it.
And now my heart is only a moldy stone, all thanks to this cruel world.
The sprinkled moondust
hovering above the wisps of clouds,
veil the puzzle pieces
as they linger
in the pools of wisdom
left behind by the sages,
where the thinkers have bathed
and left their sorrows,
to come out immaculate;
leaving a legacy
for the new intellectuals to put together.
Comment if you liked any specific parts of my poem. Constructive criticism is appreciated.
her eyes shielded the pain
under ocean waves
setting dusk of sunset haze
she saw the world
at a different side of things
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