April.

Dirty rain

Upon the feathers;

it is April,

Among the years broken in winter

When it was not winter,

And we could not have been alone;

This is where we dream

And it is where we no longer relent

In sorrow and regret;

The teeming of ice chips

Beneath our feet—moved like blood,

We occlude the protest;

Mother Nature’s hymn

Is the birdsong when silence descends…

(Escaped upon ancient ruins)

The blood at your feet,

There will be no hyacinths for us

Among the yellow-lit roads…

In abandoned cities,

Not first or last,

In figments of papaya seeds

In our hands as we pass

The undergrowth at morning.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

22 thoughts on “April.”

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