The sun is napping behind a cloud,
though loud plane engines call her awake.

Pollen is prancing around the patch,
and tiny critters follow their lead.

A big dog lies on the patio,
his smelly body absorbing heat.

You rest here with a pen in your hand,
tossing small diamonds into the sand.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

Poets born and die
with every stroke of the pen-
so live fast, write young

12:13 AM
18/6/19

a poet's pen
with scarlet ink
paper thick
for blood to sink
roses fill
the empty space
while tears fill up
in the poet's place
these shadows offended
they tease and they taunt
petals fall
as the roses fought
their darling dear
their poet's fear
as the shadows were out for blood
a poet's own
to draw it from
skin pale like a rainy day
fiery hair
tangled in thorns
a poet's pen
in a poet's corpse