2.34 am

October 25, 2018 · by · in Poetry · 5 Comments

Still, a quiet not won
by character or craft, too often
contrived and insincere

fills the violent hour. A respite
inside suffering, bricks on the forehead,
as stone on loose paper, is like this

when the moon looks me in the eye
looks me in the mind
and says

Carry and feel the sag, feel
till you bleed, then sleep
to pick it up again

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5 comments

  1. Ankit Thapa · · Reply→

    Enjoyed it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. todadwithlovepoetryandprose · · Reply→

      🙂 thanks, Ankit.

      Like

  2. forresting365 · · Reply→

    So lovely and hard.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. todadwithlovepoetryandprose · · Reply→

      🙂 thank you, Katy.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. forresting365 · · Reply→

        My pleasure, Lovely Vera!!! 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

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