before me, colours bleed like ancient ink soaking papyrus skies persimmon sits, shiftless when did you boldly gush against apocalyptic orange? time is muted, cloud-muffled I strain to see movement but you are still to the naked eye I must wait sunsets speak slowly
We are adding the word “shift” or a derivative to our 44 word poems.
Join us at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille Monday.
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST