I’ve been busy weaving words onto cloth
to make a cloak I can wear into dark forests
to whisper poetry at the Moon
and make her fall in love with me
and sit amongst the branches of trees
rustling the wind with my language
and falling bump bump bump onto the ground
to find metaphors shaking around me
and shoving at my shoulders insistently
because the world can tremble itself into rubble
and no one will notice because you can stitch things together with just your mind and your fingertips and all of it will be entirely yours.
The world looks so bleak from where I stand.
She’s blurred and shifted into something the galaxies are probably shuddering from.
The Moon hails her because she has to, and the rest of the universe stands by to watch,
hands folded behind their backs, lips curled back wondering how we managed to destroy each other so very well.
These poems are from a woman who is like the seasons. Lindsey.. I hope you enjoyed them…. 🙂