Writer in San Francisco, CA
A creased page, bruised spine,
an inked line under a string of words.
I inhale the aroma of mold, paper
decomposing and revel in the rot.
Inked words embossed, one word and
then another, meaning compounded.
I close the book, place it smoothly on the shelf
a sister among sisters sleeping in the dust.
Golden eyes look downwards into the sun
from space above. There are no angels here
only particles and blackholes. Blue marble, Earth,
spins on, and the gold suns, eyes, burn long
after the world dies.
Like this post? Try these:
Sun bathes the eyes. I am here and waiting.
Waiting for something new. Something alive and
dead to return. The sun dives down. Where are you going?
In the darkness of this room, I can’t see a thing.
Is there a world to
find? The eyes, close,
mouth open, smile,
gnarling pearls inside
tongue pink and warm
holding, dreaming words
yet spoken into creation.
Check out my blog posts about Life During COVID-19 Liked this poem? Please share or leave a comment below and let’s chat!