04-09-2020, 05:53 AM
Sunlight drips over roads
lined with skeletons of trees
bearing damage in their tresses.
What the sun is doing to the road, maybe the trees, isn't clear. And doesn't need to be, necessarily, maybe it's just shining. Though I'm partial myself to seeing the sun dripping like eggyolk in my habitual adorations.
The damage is stuckon, not stuckin. What damage? The skeleton trees could do with some decor, maybe a comb. Some richer grim scenery. Why are they bearing?
The air is laden with requiem and apathy.
We walk in somber silence
The air a silent requiem The method is to play. Don't try so hard to juggle words, MAKE sense actually means making.
on apathetic ears
gone charcoal as a sky
nurtured in dry kisses.
Our/My smog senses
recall sonnets written
. . .
watching a charcoal sky crawl down
until it kisses a drying earth,
defeat tucked in its crevasses.
I remember sonnets written for the sky
centuries ago
calling her a limpid pool of blue.
Azure, cerulean.
Some words will fade into the ebony smog, forgotten.
The point of this stanza comes down to:
to a sky actually cerulean.
If only people had realized sooner
time was barmecidal
and the shadows of their mistakes,
perennial.
You can drop the coda, and shadows. You seem a shadow-obsessed writer. Maybe set your shadowy apparitions more in the shadows.
You'd need to stretch out the barmecidal smoke a bit to justify its use. An image of taking for granted. But what would happen if you wrote a great poem without the prompted condition? Would the game trump the victory?
lined with skeletons of trees
bearing damage in their tresses.
What the sun is doing to the road, maybe the trees, isn't clear. And doesn't need to be, necessarily, maybe it's just shining. Though I'm partial myself to seeing the sun dripping like eggyolk in my habitual adorations.
The damage is stuckon, not stuckin. What damage? The skeleton trees could do with some decor, maybe a comb. Some richer grim scenery. Why are they bearing?
The air is laden with requiem and apathy.
We walk in somber silence
The air a silent requiem The method is to play. Don't try so hard to juggle words, MAKE sense actually means making.
on apathetic ears
gone charcoal as a sky
nurtured in dry kisses.
Our/My smog senses
recall sonnets written
. . .
watching a charcoal sky crawl down
until it kisses a drying earth,
defeat tucked in its crevasses.
I remember sonnets written for the sky
centuries ago
calling her a limpid pool of blue.
Azure, cerulean.
Some words will fade into the ebony smog, forgotten.
The point of this stanza comes down to:
to a sky actually cerulean.
If only people had realized sooner
time was barmecidal
and the shadows of their mistakes,
perennial.
You can drop the coda, and shadows. You seem a shadow-obsessed writer. Maybe set your shadowy apparitions more in the shadows.
You'd need to stretch out the barmecidal smoke a bit to justify its use. An image of taking for granted. But what would happen if you wrote a great poem without the prompted condition? Would the game trump the victory?