My skin is too thin not to write about stars
cause caring’s a burden that’s heavy to bear.
So I sit here writing of stars, about wind in my
hair, or fragrance of flowers, pretending,
forgetting the bloodshed of war, the abuse
and decay of decent demeanor in men.
I write about puppies and warmth in the way
that comfort of home may settle in bones
while rain of November keep lashing the walls
and my mouth is too sore not to talk about spring.
To read is to burden yourself with concern for
November and darkness, for bruises and scars.
So I sit here pretending that everything’s fine
and write about luster of stars I can’t see.
Tonight it’s Open Link at dVerse. I wrote this is some haste thinking I should write something happy. Trying my best but failing. It’s a kind of unrhymed sonnet…
November 30, 2017