still

poetry is cold and empty like outer space
like voracious cronus who devours his own sons
no matter how many verses you’ve thrown to the gorge
it burps out, calling for more

poetry is cold and empty like outer space
there are always moons where no foot may tread
no matter how loud you’ve shouted to the craters
it echoes out, calling for more

poetry is cold and empty like outer space
stellar wind drives tumbleweeds through the milky way
no matter how far you’ve overstepped the bounds
it erases out, calling for more

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2021

23 thoughts on “still

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