the moon is dark
a shade of rotten peach
decay chokes
fumes scatter
teeth chatter
whispering like old Russian ladies
watching waves revolt against the sand
from plastic fushia and orange folding chairs
the color of popsicles
sold to parents in Washington Square Park
on a day drenched in sound
guitar strings wrap around
calloused fingers
the moment holds on
the now begs to not be forsaken,
forgotten or released
into an ether that casts shades
on a dark moon
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment