This Might Be The Most Depressing Thing I’ve Ever Written
For pen. For paper. I fumble the night
to write these stammered words. I grieve
for its loss. Its misuse. This deluded light
that I might write, and pretend to believe
myself poetic. A witless froth at any age,
I know not grammar, my words are away
like disjointed vertebrae. I’m no wise sage
or bookend of knowledge, but today
my pen and my paper fill freewill, true
to clouds, sky, and brief sight that find
lost love in tear-soaked gasps. We two
are scattering our days, yours and mine.
These words hang silvery-white, still
as night’s murmur or a spill of grey hair.
for dVerse Verse Epistle and @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter © Misky 2021