Smoke-pits of kohl horizons
twilight reels towards a chasm
of light stumbling into darkness
illuminating a pool of bated brine
while calamity finds itself stranded
‘midst a gray-goose pillow crease
raging into the hollows of un-dreamt nights
bulging lips smooth over a pen’s precipice
to oust breaths musk-laden with ink
and an entropy of sounds drifts
into an utterance of a half-fitting metaphor
bound to a poem in the making
like the promise of rain to petrichor
Listen closely
and you’d hear faint echoes whistling and wheezing
through lone alleys of old love
buried in spaces far deep
sounds of laughter chasing the sun
in concentric circles of fractured rhythm
but surely one would’ve heard a gulp
as she swallows a sky of barely-feelings
holding the edges of a fall.
