Lucid Poetry

The music has run out

the sound of the solar is silent


even the moon is hiding


everything is sharper

even though the light is dim.


The night is indian ink and indigo

the sky is still burnt

the edges still raw


even the birds are quiet.

For the morning

the black feather is waiting

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Smoke Signals

When you add a new chapter to your life you can't just erase the previous ones. All stories have a beginning, middle and an end progression marked indelibly in time on paper in print pen pencil or pai