Micropoetry 4-24-2020

low voices
on a dark night
dead as the earth

struck
again and again
until the stone breaks—
weak in being hard

a murmur, soft as rain
on a parched plain

morning clothes
left in disarray
by the one who left

house trembling
beneath a solitary wind

open plains for the ones
who will never come back

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.