Untitled
The bent figure on the
horizon
sat many moons.
Above, the stars’ orbit—
a record of his dreams.
I’ve etched it
on the palms of my
hands,
hold them tight
against the night.
Behind me
little death-moths
swirl about your hair
slow, but sure.
*
Photographer Acacia Johnson
Poem completed 4/2014
6 comments:
Girl, you are one wicked ass poetess. Love it
Yeah, this is really wonderful.
You have a great way with words.
Very, very nice. And inspiring.
Great poem!
So much imagery...
Thanks, ya'll. :)
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