We’re all in the dark
and it’s not early
Maybe not too late
We sleep in narrow beds
in rooms shimmering
and burning from a sickhearted
moon.
The stars reflect a defective hue.
We long for a powerful eclipse
or for a comet to appear.
Angels feet on fire.
Thinking our world is woven
by the fragile string of fate.
We waste the moonlight.
Gazing at static air.
-Tosha Michelle
Here’s hoping that powerful eclipse comes đ
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In my best Frasier voice “indeed”
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I’m listening đ
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đ
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Lovely poem.
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Thank you
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the ending is beautiful ! đ
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Thanks đ
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You seem to be going deeper lately – love the photo too â¤
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Thanks so much đâ¤ď¸
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Often the case!
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True
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Reblogged this on John Cowgill's Literature Site.
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Thank you kindly. Happy weekend
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You are very graciously welcome kindly.
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Beautiful.
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Thank you
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Such deep verses. “Thinking our world is woven, by the fragile string of fate”: those ones in particular truly resonated with me… I guess we are always trying to reach trascendence… maybe it is a way to “deny” that inexorable fate… Have a great week! đ
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Yes, always striving. Wishing you a lovely week too x
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Interesting to use ‘celestial aspects’ as things such as the ‘sick hearted moon” and “stars reflecting a defective hue” to show the seperation and space between them as opposed to bright and bold love these things usually represent. Static air is neat too, like the most uncomfortable silence!
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Thanks for reading and the attention to detail â¤ď¸
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You’re welcome đ
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Very surreal and your wordage is purely gold and true. đ
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Thanks â¤ď¸
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You welcome. đ â¤
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