What pouches?
we have
carried our
bags
far from
where civilization
has tumbled
down
the long
dark stairs
of its
success.
my pouch
was sown
in shade
of humbleness.
light
of moon
before a storm
is a
luminous treat.
the night
in my
ear
tastes like
a cold
cubed fruit.
all i have
is filled
stuffed with
a riddle
held together
by my
clumsy
stitches.
my feet
Chirp
As my big toe glides
pigeon-toed
i amble
written
odd letters
in tread
of my footsteps
down the crooked
cobblestones
of roads.
a riddle
i wrote
it on
a folded
piece of
paper
the i cut
with a small
silver pair
of flamingo scissors.
a seed
for a small plot
for a flower
to bloom
a torn
to prick
My throat
with
metallic tone
as
i
whisper
in my sleep.
