Pygmies of Homemade

Dark poetry
It is always night
Eternally ugly, this moon
With the smell of stale stars

Black dawn
Divided sunset
Not into equal halves

Twine into a loop
And re- rewind
Dark of bovine

Putrid oranges
Swollen grapes
They throb and ache

So flagrant in vein
Night breath has its own smell
But not a name

A heart with many souls
Each one seeping, curdled
Garroted in shame

Pygmies of homemade
Hide what they came to discover
It is nighttime again

By kritika shrivastava
Published: 8/29/2008		 Your Contributions: Tell us a Poem! You don't have to be a Buzzle.com author to contribute to Poetry Bee. Submit a poem of your own right now!
 
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