May 18, 2013 by

Dismissing Spring

Categories: Poems, Tags: , , , ,

274/365 - Storm's Brewing

These days, not much to be heard
But sighing. Paint dries in tubes, the blank

canvas quickens with dust. Does not even echo
a name, or ask for light to dance.

Here is a handful of weariness-
I can’t even find a moment
to plan its demise.

Too much reality, too
out of focus to even cry.

And who gives a damn
how many sunsets burn my

Or stone-death frail trembling
arms. Neruda is dead and smoke is

around my head,

Broken halo.

~Heather Lenz

Poet, writer, artist, publisher, editor

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