Monday, March 27, 2017

Writ in Blu

fit between these covers
                                        blue ink
fine points of human life. many spills
make a line.
                    I am the only one who I was
at death. Does that mean the cycle repeats
or not? After death? or
                                      ever life?

This poem is the sunset.

                                        Until you catch
the clouds moaning      or the cars.
But that could have been the road. It just

without us
                  making those sad sounds into
periscope night skies.
                                    The orbs that are headlights
lead the masquerade.          

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