bruised, purple

i wear the blue end of the sky,
a small wisp of a cloud, over here -
whistling red tunes to purple jazz,
i am no busker on the streets,
more of a journey-girl, peddling
hard-hearted stories, black-market dreams
on the sidewalk, across to your house,
windows all around, a face hard to read,
i am offered food, a roof over my head,
a bed for the night, a warm body to talk to,
lay down my sorrow; there is no moon,
tonight, the way the sun is holding on,
the stars try to remain in the dark,
i move to your door-mat, the bell rings,
my heart, a stone, immovable, heavy
on this side, where there is no room
for breathing more than my button-nose,
my parched mouth, no answer from you,
you have moved on with final certainty,
grave and calamitous towards a man,
with the walking stick and his penny songs
 
 

Reviews

[Lyn Anderson]

beautiful images here, and an intriguing end.

[highonwords]

thank you,kl, for the wonderful comment and visit - glad you like it :)

steph

[Alfred Kukitz]

A unique poem filled with simplistic beauties. I love wearing sky too with cloud 9 an occasional shelter.

Great write!

Regards,
Al

[highonwords]

thank you so much, al, for the wonderful comment and lovely visit

best,
steph

[gabrielle]

And perhaps, it's also time to move forward but, cliche as it may sound, it is easier said than done. Poignant, as always.

[highonwords]

thank you so much, ate gabs, for the wonderful comment and lovely visit :)

regards,read morethank you so much, ate gabs, for the wonderful comment and lovely visit :)

regards,
steph