"inkblots" poems
Alone with this desk,
And a notebook chock-fulled with paper;
Endless.. he chomp everything away.
Things truly aren’t easy,
The silence makes it harder.
Hey music, fill the air;
For not all truths,
But laughs of frauds may break out.
Just like the old days.
Just like the lady boss,
Just..maybe.
There should be dancing all around,
Where crowds should chip in
And take things in stern.
Errands were not decors –
Trespass! Like mini ciphers,
Digits, letters, they knock the drill out.
Only a couple more days left,
But in ignominy,
This generation may fall;
How pitiable..
With such marks and inkblots,
The source remains unrecognized.
They’re used to seize papers like that,
Although such are committing theft already.
Left were words,
Can’t spell it unerringly;
Yet the hearsays divulged its address,
So now, it’s time to slam this tome;
End the toil that has always been the crook!
Go outside,
For the sun’s rays are there!
Goodbye to this aged chair,
And to this notebook full of nicks,
With new freedom,
We shall embrace..
Everything.. “Ciao” to what’s new,
‘Coz this is the real world!
Oh college days!
(7/25/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
You are drinking yourself red-eyed and crumpled
on an unmade bed meanwhile I
am hating the world’s promiscuity and signing
autographs that serve no alternate purpose
subsequent to their ink-blotted conceptions and silently
my heart scratches and claws and penetrates
bone, muscle, and choked fat
to get to you
How will we know
when we’re no longer
young enough
to inconsequentially
rot our bodies
from the inside
out?
If I could
I would search for a space
impenetrable
by ants molecules and medium-sized atoms
that exists between
my pale finger tips and
your freckled
bare back moving
slowly up and down
If I could
I would be somewhere where nothing
is the tarnished byproduct of anything
where no one will remind anyone not to
clog their throats or minds or eyes
when they
shiver and choke on scarlet inkblots
and chug gasoline
and wipe away dirt stains
and drink each other’s shame
and form cuts on the soles of their feet
after rushing barefoot through beds of sharp stones
to reach other
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
Do you believe
that a poem
has not one meaning
but imports as numerous
as the eyes that experience
its existence
and try to piece together
how it exists in their life?
that the core of a poem
is some internal light
that the poet has basked in
which has manifested itself on the page?
***but that for each of us
who is touched by its presence
it is an aurora borealis
which holds us rooted
panting in excitement
lost in admiration
and appreciating that someone somewhere understands?***
that an encounter with a poem
is like trying to find shapes in the clouds
or constellations in the stars
or meanings in inkblots
that within its randomness
patterns emerge
and each one may discover
exactly what one is looking for
that within this meeting of minds
there is an universal connect
a personality test-
that reveals both
the reader and the poet
so while reading any poem
it may be worthwhile to think
what did I learn about you?
and what did I learn about myself?
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
18.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction
I have a love unending
Transcending space and time
Living in the world I create deep within my rhyme
And I stand 'till I choose to sit
And I will sit for now
Wiping inkblots off my page as if sweat from my brow
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction
She was and still is the girl
The girl who was unobtainable
Yet my body stays restrainable as I sit here scribbling
Tossing her hair over her shoulder
I stick to my seat as if atop me's a boulder
And I try to convince myself that I'm too busy
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction
I am a boy who doesn't take chances
While the words dance in my brain
And I write of love and true romance and live them on the page
So my **** has finally decided to not partake in the occasion
And stay seated so I'm not defeated to prevent sorrow's invasion
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction
My brain and heart battle for control
Of shifting feet and lover's soul
And what stands as inconceivable is why I'm so lost
A chance is a chance and that is all they are
And I need not travel very far
Not trying is still losing and standing and sitting both have their cost
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction
Heaven's eyes lie through ruby curls
She meets my glance and smiles at me
While I stew with ink-stained fingers here in purgatory
Stand up, **** it! Just stand up! My heart and head reach a conclusion
Pages only go so far and the safety of sitting an illusion
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction
I stand up and find, to my surprise,
My legs choosing to support
Dropping pen and picking up the ball that's in my court
And I walk up to the girl who plagues my dreams
As if her very being, to me, beckons and calls
Only to hear the world laughing at me as I slip, trip, and fall
And hell is all to real to the boy who occupied purgatory
With tear-filled eyes from looking to heaven
With ****** nose caused from leaving his seat
Seeing my chance flutter away as I run out of the room
Indented in the red haired girl's eyes as a simple buffoon
Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Coming back another day to claim my love once more
And being ever so careful to make sure my face meets yours, not the floor
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
I smell burning lights of neon and blue.
It's Christmas, they say. Inkblots have formed
their own sentences, helping me
write.
In the midst of this slow night,
I swear I am right.
And I pull Kafka from the shelf
because I want to hear him talk.
I am my own vermin, and we can be random
together.
I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I love you.
Shall we dance despite your limbs?
Samba's playing, I am left staring at you
then back at him,
and right back at you, right where you stood
tiptoeing as you reach the topmost corner of the
cupboard.
You know I never hide any can of insecticide, Kafka,
because I get it, you'll wither.
But I love you, Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I'm a bit colorful with a drag of dirt.
I'm a bit Spanish when I shake my hips.
I turn French right before midnight.
I lose sight and might when the clock chimes
two in the afternoon -
I become just by looking at you.
Because I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
~Be You, Don't Change For No One~
Smoking butterflies
Lilted with jade poison
Swirling into my jeweled lungs
I smile; high on madness
..
No one can defeat me now
The drug monster
Pulsing thru my veins
I feel I can rule this land
..
Though in reality
There is no such thing
..
Metaphors spill from my lips . . .
. . . my blood
..
Eyelids fluttering
Like the wings of a dove
Everything is blurry
White walls; nothing
..
I scream
Confused
Shattered
Lost
..
In pain; lungs bursting
Mind racing
Heart beat beating---
..
I'm slowly dying
My paper body
Inflamed
Essence of butterflies
..
Floating around me
The ones I smoked
The ones I inhaled
They are killing me; whispered I
..
Though I am nothing but a page
Filled with Inkblots
Smudged . . .
My pen comes to save me; yet again
..
It rewrites me
Stitching new stories
Over my old scars
Creating a new me
..
Ink kisses my lips
Her chemicals seeping into my papery skin
Bleeding into me
I'm becoming a scroll
..
Decorated with so many rules
..
As I sigh
My pen stabs into me
Becoming me
I then scream ashes; everything fades black
..
Awakening . . .
I've become a notebook
Staring up at myself
I watch my own face
..
Intense
Dreamy
Thoughtful
. . . Disturbed
..
Pen in my hand
I open myself
Taking the pen
The one, which stabbed me
..
Ink bleeds
Onto my pages
I feel my pain,
My obsessions, my happiness . . .
..
I watch as the spirit of writing
Leaves my body
Folding itself between my pages
Like a bookmark
..
The pen falls from my hand
Landing on me
I watch mystified
As the pen whispers
..
"No one can defeat you now
This is your land,
Your rules, your soul
Welcome to the notebook life'
..
"You wanted something better
So I remade you"
..
-B-but this is not what I want-
I plead; trying to cry
But notebooks don't cry
Only the ink can cry for me; the ink from my pen
..
The pen chuckled
"Then my friend . . .
Be careful what you wish for
You didn't want to be human"
..
"So I made you
Into something better
You are useful now
You are popular"
..
I tried to scream
But I saw myself get up, snatching the smiling pen
I closed myself
Only to be open again when needed . . .
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
Hundreds of little droplets
tethered together
perched on clusters of wire
set in five
swing across the surface
at varying rates
up down
and around
until they plunge into
final resolution.
Most see a mess of lines and inkblots.
an indecipherable language
a cousin to Braille
They see the only stark contrast,
black against khaki
the page aged with affection
while I hear the harmony.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
I asked the love inside me
to sleep but not to die.
To fly like swallows at sea,
give me peace,
but please,
be homesick.
I asked the love inside me
to relent it’s doping up
like an Indian Luna
discarding the moon
for daylight.
I asked would it be stoic,
Drown the sun for just a day
and hang dark over street-signs
that have anagrams of her name
or point to wherever she sleeps.
I asked the love inside me
to keep the love-bites
in my capillaries
lest they phosphoresce
like the backs of cuttlefish.
I asked would it be patient
to shine them later,
as inkblots, reminding me
of what the softness
of her lips can do.
I asked the love inside me
to remember and not to hope.
Keep our room everlasting
alight with music,
and like my love,
my own.
there’s lipstick kissed filter tips
and roaches made from textbooks
littering the ash-hardened carpet.
The lift of bra strings over collarbone
tracing a mole
meeting like the Saone and Rhone there.
Hungover afternoons
where the heat stays asleep in the air
circulating with our radiance
as if our hearts fill the whole space.
The time moves glacially
like we’re children
having nothing to compare it with
but the length of hair
and the states of cliff faces.
Two stillborns
meeting in the afterlife.
The first time
and the last time
and all the love in between
is alive.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Inkblots cloud the sky
Inkblots murk the clouds
Inkblots envelop words
With their drops of black destruction
An inkblot falls on a painting, a drawing, a writing, and it all drowns up.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Vocal ingenuity
A generous gratuity
I wish could be removed from me
But I would still write poetry
--Which someone else would have to read
As from the page the inkblots plead
"Give us a voice!" the letters said
Without a voice they would be dead
But no-one reads my poetry
And so its voice is left to me
To show the World, or just to try
Be truly heard before I die
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:33 PM UTC
Of all the lost souls I have come to know,
You are the bravest, strongest, most divine.
These misplaced foot steps set the world aglow,
With each touch of your hand, new stars align.
I assumed your wondering made you lost --
How foolish of me, but now I can see
You are more than stone: bright granite embossed
With love’s red roses, not sickly ivy.
Envy is my desire for your hands
And how they can shape such beautiful thoughts.
You are like a creation of Dream’s lands,
Lulled spirit tattooed with scattered inkblots.
Wandering but not lost, found but still searching
To bring color back to Earth’s eve of spring.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Nature's own inkblots,
By time and wind shaped
Each with a story to tell,
Fantasy stirring, recollection as well,
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.
Some have stooping shoulders,
Like old men after a funeral
Talking quietly on the lawn.
Some have boughs that slant down,
Like eyebrows
On teachers that frown--
Worried and skeptical.
Some stand at varied intervals
Along hilltops above a town
Watching like sentinels.
Some have branches that curve up,
Short, like fancy mustaches,
Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched
To greet a loved one.
Some stand very close, boughs touching,
Like families saying grace;
On some, the branches intertwine,
Like lovers who embrace,
And on some, the lowest limbs
Fly upwards,
Like a skirt raised by the wind.
Young ones crowd together,
Some taller than the rest,
Trunks thin,
Like kids choosing sides for baseball.
On some, the branches rise like smoke,
Billowing silently, curling,
Drifting to the sky
Like prayers from a little church
Where all the woman wear hats,
And every man wears a tie.
Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye--
Each with a story to tell.
Silently standing,
By time and wind shaped
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Pressure around my lungs cutting off the air
Agitation and alarm shooting through my veins
Negativity surrounds my thought in a haze
Inkblots in my vision from asphyxiation
Crushed with the heavy weight of it
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
princess blood cult
throne of tethers
rumor's of frazzle drip murders
and blood spatters
on a bed of grinning hooks
X
marks the *******
she bled they fed
in love in bed
torn dress and flutter ******
form her squandered torso
as bare feet dangled
while skies shrieked knotted eyes
watching her get it hard
wet **** drunk
she tumbled
in this little black house of madness
****** her in a sack of sins
while **** buckarooed
in a wood shed paradise
welcoming death by sexicide
she backstroked head over heels
exposed
flirting in the graveyard hacked and black
beckoning orchards that
caressed her by squirming *****
she adored the mole that snuggled her
while thighs shuddered with anticipation
hurricane tongued
she licked grinning *****
for pudenda's pillow
shimmed black light disco daggers
down her lips
to ****
to thighs
to drooling
raw lips
her ****
like a shucked oyster
whimpering disciple
of enticing wounds
bloom in gloom
she tasted like taffy panicked *******
erotomaniac
from head
to lips
to feet
chanting squeals
of infernal opera
in the throws of blood *******
and weeping barbarous
stammer
beezel blaba blaba
Beelzebub
her body stained labyrinth floors
in soiled cathedrals of desire
while growing phantasm babies
he whispered death music
in grottos of legs over head
that made her hotter than
boiled fish eyes
chopped her in two
she squirmed
shivering inkblots of madness
cu cu cu cu cu cu
*******
swing the scythe
and
get the knife
she shrilled
pump the ****
split the bone
smudge the lips
spit and blood
moon eyes turn blood gauze
and heads swivels hula
the **** yields
a spooled mouth contortion
her *** crack
a smile of accomplishment
and tormented ballet feet
stretched tickle toes
for heavens edge
she panted rolling away dark air
in an uneasy creeping
and widened thighs
she lost her head
like a chopped carrot
for the miracle of oblivion
you could hear the last thump
falling as silence falls
she spread like bat a wing umbrella
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
I wish I could draw circles
Signs and symbols
And have you understand
That there should be
More to life than this
The mundane
The days found lacking
The words that mean nothing
There is more than this
There has to be.
I cradle my head in my hands
And wish on a higher power
I draw sigils on my skin
and hope they mean something
Hope they make me more
Than what I am.
They don’t,
They are nothing but inkblots
Open to interpretation
But nothing else
They are not important
I am not important
I cannot draw a line on the ground
And turn it into a wall
I cannot paint birds
And make them fly
I cannot stand in a circle
And be protected
I cannot call upon power
That I do not have.
I am not chosen or called upon
I just live in the world
I haven’t changed it
The marks I make are superficial
They can all be erased
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
i am a poem.
my stanzas are in my skin. my rhythm in my heart.
beat in my fingertips.
pulsating.
my scars are my story. the ones you can see and the ones you cannot.
i am many mistakes, lines words phrases X out.
change this to sound prettier, change that to make sense.
i am my history as ink to paper, traveling incessantly, twists and turns and loops.
i am cursive and i am print.
i am story and i am song.
these inkblots are in my veins wicked and tangled.
i am free to be what i choose, whether it is what you like or not.
i am insatiable, for my words are endless.
i am lies and i am truths, manipulation of words to caress the readers ear.
i am adjectives and nouns.
i speak verbs to make me move.
i am hesitant when i wish then i am done.
i am goodnight sun, goodmorning moon. i am swordfights and fairytales galore.
i am sensible by little means, but you listen just the same.
i am a beginning, i am a middle, and i am an end. but not this end...
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 8:07 AM UTC
There’s a place up the avenue
Where lovers come to fail
Look at each other with dispute
And hate is all they feel.
When they check in they always say
“I tried so hard, where do I sign my name.”
They always complain about the investment they have made
Does the room, have a place to change?
The credit card’s declined
The Hotel never seems to mind
The key is in the shape of a broken arrow
right to the heart.
The desk clerk smirks
Gets your name exactly right,
Even though you’ve never met
until this night.
The concierge will give you directions to the local graveyards
The bell hop only dances and never says a word
When you give him a tip, he’ll only throw out your words
The elevator only goes down
The only music heard is the sound
Of a solitary heart beating in rhyme
Singing the song
“You will never be mine”.
The hall way corridor goes on forever backwards in time
The lonesome sounds of whales singing
Echoes through the halls, coming through the walls
And from beneath every door.
The rooms offer amenities
The devil dancing in the pain
On the head of a pin
The walls have one function
That’s to close on in.
The ribbon of blood
That seeps through the mirror
Dances in inkblots all the way
To the sink
Which drips tears of
Frustration
Resignation
Isolation
Recriminations.
The bathtub waters
Only run too hot
or
Too cold.
There is a bed of nails
Inviting ruminations
The images of her with him
Him with her
Strobes on the ceiling in endless loops
Of anguish’s fatal tunes.
Room service offers a variety of suicide utensils
The mini-bar contains a row of empty bottles
and a syringe without a needle.
The garbage men are always out side
Garbage cans crashing through the endless night sky
The windows open to brick walls
While couples in bliss dance cheek to cheek
In the bar across the street
Sometimes they look up at you and smile
That smile.
This nightly room has become a weekly
The weekly a monthly
And if you are not careful
Stay too long
Once you check in
The check out will always be closed
At the Hotel Heartbreak
Just down the road.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
"We had all these crazy fuckin' dreams together, Me and Her. We ate our weight in marshmallow ***** pancakes underneath the stars and kissed each other with tongues of fire licking roofs of open mouth. Her mouth was like a fuckin' inferno, like in the sense that it seems so small and insignificant until you actually get there and then it just swallows you whole, gets you hotter than you've ever been in your fuckin' life and you're there for eternity. It's endless. If you weren't thinking about it before, now you're thinking about it.
You're thinkin' about her, and thank the fuckin' heavens for that. If I could get every man on the face of this planet to think about her the way I do, at the length that I do, til we all fuckin' keel over, it just wouldn't do it. She's somebody that gets stuck in your hair when you're not looking and somebody you trip over in the mornings when you just fuckin' cleaned the place up. She clings to the bottom of your shoes til you can hear her name in any number of footsteps on any number of paths."
______________________________________________________________
Baby, let me sit in the driver's seat.
Let me drift smoothly, subtly into your lane.
Remember how you always said I was too **** skinny?
Guess what, baby?
When the tail lights call to me I can slide right in between them, like a fitted sheet or rungs on a washboard. I darted between the raindrops like you always said I would but I got wet anyways. What do you know about that?
I don't know much about it, myself.
The doctor said I can't drive anymore. I told that son-of-a-bitch, "my eyesight's 20/20! I seen every single puzzle piece on those office inkblots for the knives and daggers that they are! The **** I look like?"
I'm exhausted, Baby. I'm leaking black smoke out of my lungs. I don't brush my teeth anymore because the fluoride ***** up my third eye. How do ya feel about that? Meditate on it. Meditate on me. Meditate on the stars, on the heavens, on God, on babies that died inside of us. I always told you, Baby, you're the best idea God ever had. You fuckin' did it. Tie me up, baby. If I can't drive anymore, drive me out of here. Tie me up to the ******* tracks and cover my naked body with those whaddya call ems? Tuck me into your blanket statements so big I get them confused with the entire ******* sky.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
"I am not of worth."
"I am not revered."
being talentless
is what i've always feared
"This boy
craving release of cluttered thoughts
puts pen to paper
but repeatedly jets out
uncreative inkblots."
I am silhouetted by the face of laughter and joy
all cavorted actions are just a decoy
what i'm thinking is I have no reason
everyone just seems so far
why am I here?
whatever you are.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones
as a vivisection, on our love.
there, she’s whispering into shells
into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses
and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute.
I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica
and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea
always accompanied as I were
with the shark-eye, death, of her looks.
We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe,
filled the place up with lit and lightless places,
Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued.
Spent hours inside, laying floorboards
and then laying on them
to stare at the sodium lights
and discuss the inkblots on our eyes.
We vivisected our lives,
and splashed it on the walls
and carved it into the carpets.
We set alight to christmas trees
when the kids were sleeping upstairs.
We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror
and answered the door.
Valentines day was full of bone bouquets,
the gripper rods grew through the carpet
so on them we danced.
I prayed for the first time in the first year
and every one hit me subesquently
like I was its anvil.
I should have gone to war.
Because it makes forever shorter
things can only happen right now.
I watched everything in our domestica,
like when the static moved off the television
and played on the window
gutting me of my escape.
The smiles hung on our faces like lupus,
We had people round,
we cooked and coughed and choked
And their faces peeked round from the doorframe
and laughed.
The domestica lives
only to be a bit of fun,
but in the very same span of time
that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill
and my children’s love for me
and my dexterity.
We’ve happened to the whole world too
I promise you, my love,
my little hospice fire,
my flat tire at night at nowhere,
the lie you recognise means it’s over,
A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers,
the brightest night when you’re hiding,
your heart attack on holiday,
your bloodstained bed sheet
And sleep, whilst outside
the sleet and snow makes every emergency
harder to get to, and still the morning
much more beautiful.
I, you, we happened.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
springtime artistry:
floral inkblots bleeding through
winter’s blank canvas
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
inkblots
are blackholes
warp to another dimension
an abyss
stare at it long enough
and they come right at
you
a starless night
where the sky
is your canvas
the power of
your imagination
turns ink and paper
to any possibility
you wish it to be
rip through reality
through time and
s p a c e
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
This aching churns within me where happiness will bubble
T-minus 5...4...
My writing is **** There's no art here anymore.
Sob
********** onto paper.
Everyone relates to interpretation, but inkblots have no soul.
Stains, waiting.
Sunlight cannot creep where darkness cannot grow.
Coin-flip. Mind-trip. Sad rag-time beat out, off beating
beat poet beats drums no one can hear.
There's nothing here.
Jeckyl wishes Hyde would hide, run away
never come back--
I'll never forget how much I lack
I've cracked, back fractures breaking
too much ecstasy--not enough--You're shaking
is that me?
can't be.
This desperation
this need to cling to SOMETHING
it's worse every time--it's cheap when I rhyme
I can't ride out these mistakes, can't fake that I'm ok
I seem to be doing fine.
but its one
or the other in my mind
-NOT SO YOU COULD THROW LIGHTSWITCH RAVES-
can't be saved
keep repeating
I wish I could be saved but
they never let me have my pony.
No white horses
No dreaming
So obsessed with this wheel I keep spinning
the only thing I seem to be able to do is change direction.
tedious, no?
It's what we're working with.
All I ever wanted was somebody to love me
now...when it comes to be
it just makes me more crazy
how can someone love me?
it doesn't make sense.
I go to rip off your mask and I take off your face--
surrounded by rotting skin
searching for a way to end
so how can I begin?
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
Finding treasure in the night
on top of buildings the bright
stars shine a cool crisp heat
with scarce enough light to treat
my eyes to yours, tous le jours
Like children we use the stars as dots
connecting our way like nature's inkblots
Oh there's life in this moon
more than the sun at noon
to a sunflower, we breathe the power
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC