Blank is the map of my brain secreting
pearls of commas and semi colons
but not any periods of value in the winter.
Dead is the ink in my pen,
a skunk discharging odor of garlic wrapped
in rotten rhythms, in the middle of spring.
White is the shadow of the blue bedspread
drowning the bones of sentences
with tears on a hot summer day.
Barren is the womb
of words hanging at the cemetery,
as maple reaches the well of autumn.
I decry the moment of write right
with seasons escaping tunnels of distraction,
becoming a noose around the fingertip.
newmiragejournal 