Zigzackly informs me that today marks the beginning of the godawful poetry fortnight, so I thought I'd do my bit:
Now the moon, like a smallpox victim,
hides his pitted face,
afraid that the sun may evict him
from his nightly dwelling place.
While the sad and unplucked roses
dream in slow perfumes
and rehearse the unconscious poses
of Death in living rooms.
And a little mouse squeaks like a gate
someone has forgotten to oil;
squeaks of Love and Loss and Fate
and Blood and Sweat and Toil.
P.S. Zigzackly also points to a Flash Fiction contest, one that is, alas, only open to those residing in India.
Godawful Poetry Fortnight