Snowcapped peaks eclipse
the butterscotch moon
showing me only the crescent's lip
under the celestial loom
the pale yellow light
struggles to reach me
sympathizing with my endless plight.
The moon sets me free.
Scoundrels slandering my words
Exist no longer, in my mind
Nothing in me is left unheard
trails of lines for them to find.
Because under the moon
My poems are a holy tune
No comments:
Post a Comment