#525
It could be you,
each image,
someone you love,
someone you loved,
someone you knew,
the tragedies,
the television,
the history books,
each joy,
each victory,
each line in every poem,
it could be your hand
that wrote them,
your hand that shook theres,
your finger, your trigger,
your brush, your pen,
you stand to the mirror
as you stand to the strangers,
the same hair, the same look,
the alarm rings
as the bell tolls,
as the sun rises,
as the moon sets,
it could be you
that looks back.
#526
Long conversations regarding
mortality, morality, and
how we want to save the world,
save our souls,
bedside with beers
in a hospital outside
the centre of Munich,
with my best friend,
too young to be in the heart ward,
too wise to be silenced,
and i forever the fond witness.
#527
Soaring amongst the stars
tonight we danced under
the northern lights.
Of all the sites
these tired eyes have seen
i’ll never forget such
a deep, gorgeous green,
the same shade
the graces the edges of your irises.
#528
And what now?
When the wind dies down,
the walls climb high,
and the dust and dirt
cake my brow,
turn the page?
Turn ever onwards?
When the pen loses ink
and engine steam,
turn the page?
Again and again?
#529
And even as my eyes burn
i dare not to think
of the sweetness of sleep,
not even the warm waves of dreams
could tempt me away
from waiting up for you.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write