Poetry

the muse is dead.

as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me
breathing in my cigarettes,
death’s in the traveler
being left alone in Italy; from the garden,
all bodied, all that red and bleak

My reply, Lucy.

Originally posted on mtaggartwriter:
and also the men who are too large, walking. hurting, toward the storeand the women who sit in their cars, windows nearly closed, smokeeverywhere and they see me looking at you, in my phone, while I’mnone…

Alone.

There, the shores of lonely remembrance see as to I have brought
On the stirring abandoned rivers that are breathless through the shriveled drops of blood,
And it is glinted from the wounding sun upon my pale skin that flutters upon the shallow surf,
And I, oh, I will be beside the sunsets and shadows that waned through the pretty moans,
Gemmed with tears that will roll as the grappling sea that lays with a reflection of rattled and splintering waves that will curl upon the quiet stones;