Friday 20 September 2024

dearth

 dearth 


death is born with us

it is of us

it belongs to us

and it dies when we do


death is the

non-existent bookends

that spill the butterflies days


it is the shell of the pupa

the dust on a broken wing

when the luminescence dries


it is the closing of the sunset’s eye

No comments:

Post a Comment