There are rumors of sky.
Last words of swimmers, fallen
from waves. Limbs unkempt,
sleep-sown hair tossed
over wet, windy, winding sheets.
Eyes swollen, pressure kissed,
or eaten by the curious
fish who want to taste last sights.
Synesthesia, second hand.
Pearls of life dissolve,
melt on tiny tongues.
A child’s game, the rumors pass
from lips to ears to lips,
stirred by confection, convection, consensus.
Rattle, final, homogeneous,
uninteresting and petty.
“Yes, there is sky. It’s where
they make the dead.”
testing comments
hi,
I have come from bearshkinrug and found this blog very interesting. I also like writing and your poems really made an impression. Thoughtful, beautiful. needing a second reading to understand. I want to write like this.
I will come back for tips on creativity and get a glimpse of such poems
swagata
So ncie grest so nice psot s nice great!
This is really incredible. It’s extraordinary