I carve the dusk with broken nails
I claw at lack of light, I cry
between my death and fever dreams
with soil in soul and ash to blaze
in embers of regrets, I wake
entangled in my bed-sheets-shroud,
November comes, my bed, my grave
to sounds of shovels as
my mouth is filling up with sand.
From deeper shadows shines
the charcoal cinder of her lidless eyes
November reeks of mud and rot,
still, I am forced inside her grasp.
Today I host dVerse live at 8 PM CET (3 PM EST) and we will be live and read our poem to the open mic,
October 29, 2020