A Muddy of Colors

There is a dissipating storm
slipping over the tips of the Alps.
A broken man
begging coins in Houston.
A potter with shaking fingers,
no longer mending in Calcutta.
My shadow
eluding me in dark Boston alleyways.

Your eyes are headlamps,
mirrored windows,
light flashes
behind my eyelids.

There is a snake,
listless, long, and leering,
at the face of the woman I loved.

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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