The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Another

River rings

spread to me,

stroking finger

in the sea;

pockmarked lights,

fog snug tight,

shadow pines

gently glide.

When life puts carpet in your food,

be smooth—

There’ll always be another moon.

When th’world eats you without a chew,

just coo,

‘Cause there’ll always be another moon.

Patter patter,

branches battered,

skies scattered,

colors splattered;

splashing feet,

runny streets,

minty streams,

shriveled leaves.

If they serve you mud without a plate,

let’s play—

There’s always be another rain.

Don’t let them lick the frosting off your cake,

hear caves,

‘Cause there’ll always be another rain.

Crumpling air.

Lightning flares.

Pounding snares.

Soft nightmares.

While mourning the morns the afternoon had torn,

be shore

there’ll always be another storm.

If you shut your hand in another door,

be warm,

‘Cause there’ll always be another storm.

So pour me another,

pour me another.

Posted in Poetry