Printed in INK (Cinquain #2)

When the year is old and the day Is young,

When the wake of spring, brings complacent men,

And the stars come out when the darkness swung

Family and friends, safely feeling zen,

He’s hiding struggles in his veins, again.

*

Faces, persons, printed in ink, it hung

Blowing in the wind, my feet became pen

As I walked your steps, there's no breath in my lung

I’m living in your head, where death has sung

Your voice drowned out, when it counted to ten.

*

Bodies close, gears have worn, they searched for young

Hope in hand, days have passed the lions den

The whispers come, but we don’t hear the clear

sound of misery in the chains of fear

Faces printed in ink, complacent men.

*

Tires and strong whiskey, your mother tongue.

Slow the goal, lose your head; but then again

So you thrive on speed and words go unsung

Rushing home to save a friend, count to ten

Inside your head, you’ll find the lion's den

A/N Another go at the cinquain. Inspired by the many posters I’ve seen of a missing person, on cars — almost every car I walked by — in the woods, walking right next to the search and rescue. Then the day after, the body was found 💔

Guidance from a good friend of mine, here’s his link. Calvin London. The link he sent me to help me out, is below. Thank you ever so much for stopping by, and for reading. Again, thank you Calvin 🙏🏽♥️

Cinquain #1