My eyes are the dew On the wet grass They see only the hand placed On the page of the rain Where the thinning of poetry Is blurred By trying to reproduce the summer Under the advent of clouds
It is a failed watercolor Of a sunshine on the beach But tomorrow maybe The light will be at my window
Where Her Demons Go, We Will Follow (Symphonic Black Metal) — DivinumX ‘tis the time of night when your love strutsWith a mixed perfume of musk and havanaLike a strange deity, dark as the nightsLike a work of dead gods of the Savannah. ’tis that time of night I know how to tameMe, by writing; and you, …
This is not a poem Every bone, though not broken sticks out sorely. As the angry sun raged through the dusty afternoon I have sat here for long observing how the hot air never flows Nothing every flows in here, tbh – not me and surely not you. As I leave for the last time I’m …
…a poem by Sena Quashie Tonight the moon dances with laziness; As well as beautyOn the cushions of many who dream. With its dull light like a distracted handIt caresses the outlines of ourselves as we fall asleep. On the satin back of the soft avalanches, Dying, she surrenders to the long swoon, And walks in our eyes, a white …
Maybe…tomorrow
…a poem by Sena Quashie — 15 jan, ‘16
My eyes are the dew
On the wet grass
They see only the hand placed
On the page of the rain
Where the thinning of poetry
Is blurred
By trying to reproduce the summer
Under the advent of clouds
It is a failed watercolor
Of a sunshine on the beach
But tomorrow maybe
The light will be at my window
— Sunday, 15 January, 2017
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