SPRING BLOOMS



Two wounds,
etched by jet-planes,
on the buttery moon.
Signatures and strokes,
on my cascading gloom.
Puny earnestness dies,
beneath the spring blooms.
Were they gladiola?
Shrieking souls,
on cursed celluloid , and
rampaging silhouettes,
spell doom.
I swoon.
You croon.
Did the dog kill the meteor?

Comments

little boxes said…
very well written...
goes on to say a thousand words without saying anything...
weevil girl said…
youwritesosoverybeautifullyimafan!

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