The moon falls from the sky
like a cookie from a toddler’s hand.
The dogs are no longer maddened by the night
and I am no longer in love with poetry.

My muse is a withered rose. My pen a gull
who has lost faith in the loose alien sands of verse
in favor of some sea of sense and being, so there it hovers,
above the page, too tired to touch down.

If only I were a comedian.
A politician. A knave.

If only I were someone whose lies affected lives
that I might ensure that the weighty falsehoods we’ve endured
were at least wrapped ’round
some kernel of truth
and not so

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: