—–Glooms and blooms—–
Even in our absurdity,
the brush never lost control. We cooked the broken walls,
and fermented not the teeth.
An oak with a fallen leaf takes bows:
the missing mystery found in chapters,
of ruthless rhythms bemoaned by corpses.
A liar you are:
milieu of browns and blows takes squatters. He who whispers to the devil,
is the painter of his own soliloquism.
Night draws it dagger,
day sweeps it fibre:
another year shares her towel with glooms.
But whose belly gets the scavenger’s adornment of blooms?
The Village Thinker
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