What would happen if the moon leaked? Would there be a luminous canal that flowed with moon milk? Would we be able to bathe in a shimmering pool of silver?
first makes me imagine a poem that talks about an ink-stained sky and brooding clouds and chilling air, all of which can be taken as ominous signs of impending doom; but that can be bad so instead lie still and listen to the comforting melody the rainstorm plays on my old tin roof
They met up. She said: we’re done. He pleaded. She rolled her eyes. He cried. She laughed. He sniffed. She blew smoke into the air. He coughed. She walked away.
You may free yourself from self-righteousness and even escape the conical wasteland of numerous embittered moments but you will never evade the sense that all the while someone is plotting their next move.
In the skip lies a rusty bike in faded red a carpet stained and a broken bed - in the skip some rotten wood from a leaking roof all of which is evident proof of the transience of things
I’ve noticed that despite his usual insistence on neatness, throughout the spring and early summer, my neighbour always mows around the patches of primroses, leaving squares of renegade grass surrounding the flowers. I guess he must like primroses.
but is it the calculated coldness inside you that creates that sense of misplaced fairness which means you treat everyone in the same negative way regardless of their circumstances?