Probably not as funny as I think I am
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Empty boxes, wrapped in bright, shiny blue paper; that is what we are.
By Chloë J.3 years ago in Poets
Water spring, holding echoes of times long since past, binds through the ages.
Baby blue shutters white picket fence, suburb home feels like slow death march .
Soft, faded blue shirt you let me “borrow,” knowing I’d not give it back.
Sapphires fall like tears dripping from Swarovski stairs; your wealth bought you pain.
Ephemeral hue, moon blinks, and takes you with her, to hide from Sun’s wrath.
The Greek gods were capricious Of this all can agree, Servants to their many whims Bored of eternity. Though worshipped by their people
Blue door, always closed, “Daddy’s busy, go away,” Wished for just a crack.
Ghosts rise from the past to haunt under moonlit skies; with blue dawn, recede.
heart-strings, frozen stiff once pulsing with love and life; blue ice in your wake.
Powder blue dusting your face like star-borne freckles. My lips find each one.
Chlorinated blue, unbroken in morning light; ready for urine.
