I’ve eaten things
thinning dreams
and daily doses
of coddled grief,
but I’m bereft
of hunger now.
Left with lingering
pangs of hope,
breaths of ache,
gnawing flavor
of melancholy,
Bitters on my
tongue burn
my palate roof,
cleanse faith
with a wash
of red. Misery
niggles like
a rotted tooth.
I’ve no taste
left to feel,
sense left
to know—ruin.

© Grace Black

imageNational Poetry Month: Day 3


30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.

Love and Ink,


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