Jazz records

In bed-
not writing for anyone, just writing.
The moon no longer exists,
the stars are swept under the carpets
and I'm heading the same way.
I can no longer think straight-

Set my soul to 33rpm
put on another Jazz record.

I've got the blues for broken poetry
all fragmented onto sheets
on an ill lit desk.
I've been left to make sense out of echos

After all, isn't that what a poet is meant to do?

-it's 2:09am-


I now truly feel deader than a dead butterfly.

Silk

*written in memories of waking up to a chilled, sunny, crisp Autumn morning*

Saintly heavenly sphere
rises with ominous blue eruption.
The trembling leaves
lightly
caressed by colour,
and walls of silk
seal
the empty spaces.