The Wrong Ends of the Rainbow


At the brink of extinction/
The author forgets themselves
The scar tissue from which we write
Breathes the wounds of the world
It’s not unusual how at the heart

Of every poem, is a journey/
At the tips of discovery
The world changes by how
It is perceived by us, let’s make it
An art, to see the world with new eyes

Darlings, I’ve read your poems/
Like the same old world we look through
With the endless interest of living
We find use in discussing the same things
At the ends of turmoil, ruin, transformation

The author is the story, there is nothing else/
Worth relating, I write out of my charms
And spells and happy western skydrops
Countries of narratives, I couldn’t even begin

To truly describe, how the light cools/
At the idea of last incidents, forever loves.