Nothing serves better our purpose than poetry when it comes to hardship.
Check:
the money in your pockets,
the strength of your heartbeat,
your living kiss to kiss,
your eyes to see your staying here.
(Caesura.)
Somebody left, someone dear.
A breast who belonged,
who nurtured.
Period.
It's turned heavy
between these parentheses.
The slender hand had appeared,
her cachectic yearning, a dense fog.
Full stop. Departed. Endnote.
An ellipsis of flowers,
a quote of birds’ chirping,
an epitaph on the marble.
The page waves at you
in the warm breeze
laden with chrysanthemums.
Farewell read under sunlight,
aloud if there be moonlight
and mourned by the light
of a half consumed white candle.
Take your time to turn the page.
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