"trombones" poems
Thinking that maybe there is music on planets other than our own
With different tones that we just can’t seem to hone
And instruments like triple necked trombones made of recycled robotic bones
Rockstar aliens playing in bands and doing gigs on planets in neighbouring zones
A gigantic galactic space tour to call their own and silver and chrome skyscraper cities to rock and roam
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
a high school football game.
the field is ablaze with juicy roses
and doves.
the athletes suddenly drop thier pencils,
their coughing hands made of melting wax.
all the trombones are falling apart, and
the flute players are losing their *******
under the bleachers, throwing away secrets.
heartbeats cracking broomsticks, the nuns
were always hitchhikers with resounding
gag reflexes.
i sail forward, snatching the time bomb
from the quarterback, snuffing out
a pall mall on his right eyelid.
the dead angel is summoned to slay
the horrible hippopotamus. she is ancient.
she has a mouth full of cavities and peace
in her veins.
the truth is a piercing thing, whose bitter tongue will decay me.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Groovy brown skinned brothas
hip hop to the smooth jazzy
beats across the starlight scene,
exhilarating eyes light up
the uptown extravagance,
as they bust a move in the
drumbeating room, rotating
and vibrating, grinding and
bending, breathing in the
singing saxophones and
trombones.
Flashy lights shine bright
and vivid in crystal clears,
as young sweet caramel
girls sway to the high
hypnotizing sounds,
spinning hips lost in the
night, gliding on waves,
shaking in the serene
breeze like swinging trees,
soaring endlessly
across the rings of Saturn.
Heavy adrenaline rises
inside the upbeat and
sassy melanin sistas,
stomping stilettos,
show-stopping arms
and thighs harmonizing
to the midnight rhymes,
while hard bassline sounds
sifts inside various dimensions
of extreme delight.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
365Nectar #8 Crescent City Blues
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.
In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City
In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park
Slender, **** and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter
High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.
Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon
A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers
A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain
Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky
Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses
Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last
Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air
Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss
Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove
fiery trebles wave at people passing by
Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..
hung over.
Copyright ©2013 Crescent City Blues
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
DRUM on your drums, batter on your banjoes, sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Go to it, O jazzmen.
Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy tin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go hushahusha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.
Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome tree-tops, moan soft like you wanted somebody terrible, cry like a racing car slipping away from a motorcycle cop, bang-bang! you jazzmen, bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns, tin cans-make two people fight on the top of a stairway and scratch each other's eyes in a clinch tumbling down the stairs.
Can the rough stuff ... now a Mississippi steamboat pushes up the night river with a hoo-hoo-hoo-oo ... and the green lanterns calling to the high soft stars ... a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills ... go to it, O jazzmen.
2.6k
An emporium full of visual delights, moonbeams bounce and dance, around a pitted cloud clear site.
A shooting star shining, a whooshing sound if heard, lights the sky as it blazes bright, starting in the east, accelerating, disappearing out of pleasured sight.
Stars blaze illuminating dark, the galaxy forming its magical map of horoscopes in this glorious orb, Its North Star guidance for some who navigate upon our planet earth be it on land air or under the sea, a million or more miles the distance should we achieve the ability to or want to go see up close these glowing planets of rock, gas and ore.
Dying stars growing in their brightness, as if, a last attempt of holding life,
Glowing brighter than before their internal charges disperse, fading no longer able to ignite.
Dancing colours in the north and south, painted great abstracts wide and far,
Hues of fusing reds oranges yellows greens across dark blue,
Spectacular moments for those with time to sit, observe and view, these magical electrically charged special dancing hues.
Reflections distorting down below, hues shading, appearing blushed as oceans gush and light rides upon a moonlit magnetic heaving tide, a tide awaiting, a stage set for two
Only you can see the magic being created in front of misted, barely woken if open eyes,
Only you can see the rising spirits coming up to play upon the core of sphere,
Under the kaleidoscope twinkling melee filled bustling sea and sky.
Rise up, a beckon, a call to you, come join this light filled orb of invisible tunes,
Where a piano plays a serenade and the orchestra complements with
Soft sounds of Trombones, cello’s, violins, tuba’s, drums and flutes
A tempo set to sweep excited people off their seat and on into their dancing shoes
Rise up in your sparkly dancing dress and shoes for you are floating Imagination growing with every timeless move
Twinkling stars blinking approval, reflections in the agreeing tide as it ebbs and flows.
Rise up, move, dance, sway, step and jump to those imaginary magical tunes
A prince of darkness, a dreaming queen
A loving scene, a glory electrically charged night time dancing dream.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
get lowered.
The jesters
cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.
I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
steam trombones
There
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
forever deceased.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 8:16 PM UTC
Place de la Gare, à Charleville.
Sur la place taillée en mesquines pelouses,
Square où tout est correct, les arbres et les fleurs,
Tous les bourgeois poussifs qu'étranglent les chaleurs
Portent, les jeudis soirs, leurs bêtises jalouses.
- L'orchestre militaire, au milieu du jardin,
Balance ses schakos dans la Valse des fifres :
Autour, aux premiers rangs, parade le gandin ;
Le notaire pend à ses breloques à chiffres.
Des rentiers à lorgnons soulignent tous les couacs :
Les gros bureaux bouffis traînant leurs grosses dames
Auprès desquelles vont, officieux cornacs,
Celles dont les volants ont des airs de réclames ;
Sur les bancs verts, des clubs d'épiciers retraités
Qui tisonnent le sable avec leur canne à pomme,
Fort sérieusement discutent les traités,
Puis prisent en argent, et reprennent : " En somme !..."
Épatant sur son banc les rondeurs de ses reins,
Un bourgeois à boutons clairs, bedaine flamande,
Savoure son onnaing d'où le tabac par brins
Déborde - vous savez, c'est de la contrebande ; -
Le long des gazons verts ricanent les voyous ;
Et, rendus amoureux par le chant des trombones,
Très naïfs, et fumant des roses, les pioupious
Caressent les bébés pour enjôler les bonnes...
- Moi, je suis, débraillé comme un étudiant,
Sous les marronniers verts les alertes fillettes :
Elles le savent bien ; et tournent en riant,
Vers moi, leurs yeux tout pleins de choses indiscrètes.
Je ne dis pas un mot : je regarde toujours
La chair de leurs cous blancs brodés de mèches folles :
Je suis, sous le corsage et les frêles atours,
Le dos divin après la courbe des épaules.
J'ai bientôt déniché la bottine, le bas...
- Je reconstruis les corps, brûlé de belles fièvres.
Elles me trouvent drôle et se parlent tout bas...
- Et je sens les baisers qui me viennent aux lèvres.
1.8k
Crack, a littlesound from the mast
Reacting cordially to the touch of the monsoon
On her old wooden structure
A tender embrace he gives
Stretching wide the black canvas
Whispering tales of the brave
The once beautiful and strong
But now lay wrecked at sea bottom
Harboring souls of the deadCaptain Black and his crew
An old map of the sea
To the lost moving island
Resting the rulers of the sea
The great kings of pirates
Whoosh, gentle waves drifting
Rocking us rhythmically
A musical sensation it feels
Like a fine tune of a classical
Conducted live in the open sea
Trumpets, trombones and tubas
Violins, violas and harps
A symphonic sound for the traveling souls
And as the sea guardians work
Attending to Captain White in his cabin
I stand on the deck
Relishing thecold breeze
Watching the moon shiftOn a midnight sail
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
I got the blues like James cotton and the crew
The blues in my hands
Like the crew and James c.o.t.t.o.n
Not like k.r.a.f.t
More like zatarains r.i.c.e
...A lonely mans meal
The blues
For crying out loud my ol lady left me
Every 5 minutes for 9 minutes
I cry without tears coming down my eyes
So no need for a bucket
My cheeks are dry
I cry through my trumpet
My cheeks are cramping
I cry so often and so long
The way in which my feet tap you can't tell that it's a sad song
I thought I would've Lost harmony when Monica left
But my harmonica explains the exchange of breaths going through my chest
Yet, blues explains my mood
On stage with my dudes
Audience in-tune with my news
The blues
I got the blues
Can you relate?
Did she escape?
No wonder why you're rapping and sagging
Bluffing and bragging
And your not huffing; puffing , and nagging
To get a case of the blues the love between the two once upon a time had to be true
I got the blues
And it's hard and complicated
I am strung like the guitar
...Observation!
There's no contemplation
Nor hesitation
I abandon my mentals
And create instrumentals
I got the blues
And to prove I have the bruise
Heartache and headaches
Allow me to groove
The blues, skies, teals, turquoises
No lies, tears nor voices
Real blues like fats, Percy , Ruth, king, archibald "stack-a-lee", hank Williams "nobody's lonesome for me"
The blues
My aching trombones
Drug free, but my bass is laced
I let my fingers rake
The blues
She don't know what she had
Hope that I can put down my flask
when I move on to jazz
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
A rude awakening:
A friend’s best impression of
A thousand,
Deep,
Bellowing trombones.
“BWAAAAWWWWP!”
Shake it off.
Walk home and go to bed.
Fasten hat to head:
“Bye everybody.”
(wave)
Good choice on the hat,
‘Tis chilly.
Text her, “Hi,” just because.
Just in case.
Long walk home
Late at night
And still groggy.
Those trombones still ringing in my ears.
I feel new.
Like a kitten.
Every sound on the street inspires shudders.
Cars approaching from behind:
Crescendos dropping into empty ringing silence.
Someone laughs down a dark side street.
Head jerks,
And looks away.
There it is again.
Is it for me?
Walk faster.
I might still be sleeping…
Although I’m pretty sure—what’s that?
A bicycle,
Or the amplified sound of an insect
Cleaning itself.
Where is that shadow coming from?
Is something floating above this intersection?
Just keep walking.
But only after
I push this button
That does nothing.
I guess I’m just a pigeon
Flapping my wings.
But don’t I know it.
How sad is that?
Where’s that Morpheus with my **** pills?
Home base.
Olly olly oxen free.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
My afternoons have been spent listening to her
And her mind-numbing jazz, the trumpets
and the trombones, the bass guitar and the piano.
I'm almost tone deaf but, god, I could feel her soul
through her songs. She has caught me
like how liquor stared back at me
with her golden stare
As the ice begins to sweat.
After school she would teach me
How to handle her instruments:
The soprano, the alto and the tenor.
The former, we would practice often at her whim;
Her favorite sax which even with a few notes,
she'd ask me to play with her.
In her own words, "You have to imagine"
"Making love to your instrument."
"Imagine me", she said.
And for the first time I heard her play
Pink panther off key.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
The swivel, point, leap and cross of her feet on wooden floors.
Bending backwards to break the fluid boring motions.
Fingers clenching and opening to reenact a blossoming flower.
Toes circling around her frozen foot and
Shooting up high
To touch the sky.
Violins begin the piece with calming tones followed my soft piano keys.
As the trombones and trumpets trickle in
Her body leaps and lunges,
Bringing her to the ground with one leg pointed and raised to the ceiling.
Dance with me
And then you’ll see.
Reaching out her arms to touch the viewers in the front row.
Stretching her feet out to gain momentum for her ****** forward.
Her head almost sweeps the floor.
Flutes take charge and she swings her hips,
Only to create a **** whirlwind.
She collapsed and held she shin.
No one moved or made a sound. The hall fell silent.
She spread her body out on the paneled ground.
No sound left her lips.
She flipped over her left shoulder and landed in a split.
The crowd clapped vigorously, cheering.
Her mother was in the front row crying.
That girl I saw enchanted my dreams.
The rolling of her body and the extension of her legs filled my thoughts.
I wanted to be wrapped in her arms with mesh tool tangled between us.
I wanted to learn every motion she knew and replicate it.
Her eyes caught mine and she
Said, won’t you please dance with me?
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
*Evergreen soldiers at the whim of Alraus
I've had a recurrent dream of the enlisted warriors
abandoning their post , occupying the fertile grassland
in a chess type move to gain control
Free of shade , of root-bound thirst , of choking
moss gathering unchallenged in overpopulated arbors
A celebration courtesy of the Robin Knights , the Chickadee troubadours ,
the Cardinal gentlemen at the Court of Queen Chestnut
Slash , sugar , loblolly and white oak
Persimmon , hickory , honey locust and dogwood
The myrrh of gardenia , magnolia , honeysuckle and tea rose
Earthen red clay , white sand , black loam and kaolin
Grasshopper cellist , cricket flautist , a chuckling crow with a
Spanish guitar
The toad trombones , a bluebird violin solo , a mockingbird reads
a touching poem that even sways the worker ants into a brief pause
The Old Forest becomes pasture and the grassland young woodland
The dove cue the night , the katydids croon to the moon ,
the bullfrogs 'pooka-dooka' and the lovers swoon* ...
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
There's a cup of
coffee in the cup I got
when I lived in
France, turning cold,
sitting
on a book I'm using
as a coaster, called
"Goblin Market"
and the vinyl that
I found for 50 cents
is turning slowly in
my Craigslist turntable,
76 trombones
76 trombones
and I'm trying to make
my way through
"Tuesdays with Morrie,"
because Mitch Albom
makes me cry
and now
I'm thinking only
of heartbreak,
rejection,
un-
requited
love and of
the day, the weeks, the months
my grandma
died.
There's so much to be
happy for
sad for
teeter totter for
I love this life and
I feel so much pain.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
No mad coffee shop
emotions make time real be-
tween jazz consciousness—
and the taste of sound howls for
soul on city gas
beaches that work naked like
*** like sleep; selling
ev'ry beatnik book in some
village.
Cats improvise god in barely-there clubs,
so cigarette smoke music can be cool forever.
The slide guitar, gutter trombones, the sax,
drums beat into submission, and
that voice scatting softly but strong
like hail in the scrap yard.
Be-bop skiddly bop do-wop skiddly bop.
Those lips crack off dryer barrels, blender bases,
alarm clock cord plugs rapping on the dumpster.
Those teeth chew out heels on pavement, police
tires on gravel driveways, the 8:15 bus' hiss hydraulics.
That soul.
His soul.
Is just that.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Like banging a drum
passed the graveyard,
it's all he can do
to tell himself.. it's not hard.
The tombstones cast an iery light,
you can hear the faint sounds of trombones
caught behind the moon
on this chilly night.
One makes stands
higher than the other,
he recognizes this
to be his brother.
Then he takes out the fold-together *****
from his back-pack,
and commences to dig.
He digs and he digs,
the pile of dirt grows around him..
then all of a sudden.. clunck-clunck...
he hits the ornate casket with a rock hammer,
that casket that was bought and sold
by the many wails and tears
of the family and friends.
out strikes the rock hammer,
...thud...thud...,thud.
he says to himself.. this must be hardwood...Fuck.. I should have brought a drill!.
aghh the life of a grave robber... not quite a coffin cheater.
his hands are ***** now, and the midnight sky twinkles dissent.
it's plain though,yes its plain,it's plain it's plain...
Digging' up your own brother for a watch and a suit that might not even fit you.. and what else.. a couple of rings....... good luck to you.
© 2013
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
hear the music
It's funny, when we read.
One hears music of thought.
Light Clarinets with supporting Cello.
Five word sentences for now.
Smooth and gentle tones around.
Seeing the conductor's swaying arms.
We pick up the pace going fast.
Now violins playing quickly back and forth.
Sevens words at a time building expectation.
Nine words brings us almost to the great clash.
The heated strings of the instrument playing ever hard.
The horns gaining confidence and aggression with every second.
Cadance. Cutting into the music. Stopping. The Flow. Chopping. Arms of the conductor. cease.
Soft wind instruments singing
Trombones and Tubas lumbering in.
Cello, Lute, and percussion adding.
Whistles of the Flutes
Quickly rising
as the music picks up tempo
the conductor with more vigor
The energy rising and rising
sporadic outbursts
heading towards the
CLASH of the symbols
Now the music and words flowing with no breaks and stops always filling your ear with this continuous overwhelming yet pleasurable sound of thoughts and ideas bouncing around the walls of your skull the never ending music coming down gluing you to your seat with a cacophony of chaos that makes you read on and on until it
quickly
descends
into
complete
stillness.
Blank balloon of silence punctured by the needle of a Oboe
Sliced by a harp
The symphony of words is endless.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
as if anything could ring true to a fanciful melody
with chain-mail and crockery,
but not in the symphony of snoring harps
and whistling trombones as much as:
falling asleep as quickly as the tailing off of the song
looking through a woman (christopher young,
hellraiser ii, hellbound soundtrack)
and entering the realm of dream with something to think about...
and in dream, to stand outside one’s own body,
and peering through the window
to see a lightning bolt strike the ground... and instead
of disappearing due to crap wi-fi
begin to dance... moving with heavy crackling sounds
as if a man walking on autumn leaves or crisps
thump, thump thump an electric heartbeat with a sort of
freezing of water glow that expands to diamond diadems of ice,
surely no better compliment to the poem picasso behind the window...
no critical comment, no lovely jubbly one pound fish sing-along in east ham,
no... none of that... the best compliment... a furthered meaning
away from the act from the night... not so much
picasso behind the window... but a bolt of lightning, dancing
a dance of icy luminescent silver in ultra-violet x-ray.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
His bone spinning ****
sends my body into the
deepest dimensions beyond
infinity, smooth syllables rolling
around in my mouth, juicy thickness
curling into the air, surrounded
by scintillating trees and leaves,
full moon of delightful dreams,
wheels whirling alongside gleaming
mansions, eclipsing the grandest
escapes, soft stems gently growing
in grandeur, blossoming roses
singing in the spotlight.
a world of strong metaphors
breezing in the wind, sunset thoughts,
brilliant truths, a divine essence
shining in outer domains, more like
serene Venus, iridescent Neptune,
shimmery frequencies rising over beats,
reciting nonstop anthems within rocking
realms, dancing breakbeats, heavenly
voices – vibrant, membranes of mega
rhymes, membranes of insane lyrics
swirling through the body and soul,
slippery sensations, watermelon dynasties
of crazy grooves, sunshine horizons,
starlight saxophones and trombones,
high notes careening through my veins,
making me float in faded spaces.
His hypnotizing head an evolution
of sleek depths, tangible angles
and shapes, star-spangled diction,
systematic conjunctions and gerunds,
two-dimensional eternities transforming
the days into nights, and I can feel the
earth spinning within his vessel, vivid
slow jams bursting between his legs,
sheer sounds becoming a constellation
of breathtaking mazes, captivating
derivatives, warm vowels surrounding
his sensuous sea wave.
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
trombones play dead jazz
as zombies phone home during
witching hour curfews
and soccer dads in loafers,
some how broke through
haunted ghost tombs.
the dirt, wearing wolf pants
raising me errant,
giving no deserved praise,
in the moon light
of the circled days
where life controls the tides
as kids surf the waves.
solar senses showing
sensitive minds lending lenses,
deliberately shining intensive
like jackolanterns enshrined in crypts
prescribed a limit by times decision
only the most on point physics exist when
lonely kids knowing
the sky's distance is just myth
hacking schemes bent on ending happiness
as it seems, this rent exists to hassle us
remaining skeptical when it comes
to syndicates of master trusts
stick a curly crazy straw in the red sea
slurp up all the kelp and the dead things,
a young witches getting all messy.
soon, a consumer's real dream in Sumer
concedes hands free to a banshee bloomer
fleshed out as pure steam, still streams
of blood flow filth stinking like sewers
smelled by cheaters
spreading tricks for treats
like ticks with diseases
throughout suburbia
disturbing macabres
echoing curses reverbed from past times.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:55 AM UTC
My golden brass
Did you hear a silver tone.
One day I remembered the sound we made.
Oh boy with thirteen trys
I played the song of things.
The sound was a still like a drop of rain.
Great full Holst composed his eyes in vain.
And now im chopping my lips with my dreaded lay over.
Five years ago and now im searching the twenties
For old photographs about the way I played.
My heart stops and excepts the choices I made.
Because the future now the preseant is grey like a grave.
I still dream of film and simpler days.
Like it was still ambitious
When I see trombones sliding and clarinets deciding
What reed made the sound of jazz.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
Trombone bones
don't make a poem
Funny that you ask
I wonder what or why
made you the cry
Now I have to ask
"The bones are bleached
then laid bare
upon the Sands of time"
"We hang by threads
until we cut
the rope of life that binds"
Then the funeral proceeds
down the street
Clairenets , trumpets
and trombones
Life is chance
a game of dice
Won't you roll the bones
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 3:40 AM UTC
When I was little,
I thought I'd hear god in the back of orchestras,
with shining trombones and thundering timpani.
Now I hear her
in the sobs of broken mothers,
and the rustle of the leaves.
Things that aren't tangible
but still matter most.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I want to know what happened to the love
between you and I, the late-night cuddling
over sweet sensational songs, our bodies
curled up next to each other breathing in
the warm melodic beats, the moon and stars
hovering over our beautiful brown skin,
gentle fingertips pressed against chiseled
cheeks, sky grey eyes shining in sight,
as our heartbeats swayed at ease in
seamless rhythms. Your love was the
jazzy saxophone player playing his
harmonic sounds over a summer
enchantment, drumbeating trombones
marching in glorious motion, snares
and drums rumbling in brilliant blue
scenes. I never thought I'd see the day
that you walked out of my life and told
me that you never want to see me again.
Your heart had moved on with the wind
and the cool rising seas. I was no longer
your serenity, the masterpiece that made
your world a brighter light. And as I
replayed every single world, how it's brutal
diction cut deep inside my soul, how
everything made no sense, how when I
walked into the bedroom, I could see
the shadows of your faded love lingering
in the air.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC