"glout" poems
The sun wept for the moon,
but the moon did all but try.
And come every noon,
the sun would die.
Her light burning out,
like a candle.
but the moon would glout,
for him to mishandle
such a beauty was a sight
for sore eyes.
The clouds would cover her light
but her cries,
could never be heard above her madness.
Her face contorted,
her eyes pools of vastness.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC