The darkness recedes, the clouds part ways
As hope emerges, in all its grace
It rises anew, like a phoenix from ashes
The world may be bleak, but hope is bright
It illuminates, the path ahead
And though the journey, may be long and hard
We'll find our strength, in hope's sweet bread
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress5 days ago in Poets
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