Komalash

Tonight, the sky seems poisoned with a silence That breeds a rather suffocating sort of death. The stars are pinpricks. Small, Points on some cosmic clockwork, some Flower that fell off in a summer downpour. Some blue eye, glassy, vacant- it’s time to lie down. The moon is a promise of solitude to come After all has been whisked away behind daylight When each word is a revolution that tips Kings Over into the paradise of fools. April skies Barren with heat. An angering flinch from prisoners Withdrawn into hollow expectation, a single Palm that lets my hand go in the street, perhaps To lose scattered stories- all worth going