Thursday, September 20, 2018

Neetu Malik writes

A Measure of Time

I tear a piece of the moon
hold it in my hand
but there is no light

I can't see where lines
of prophesy lead
except to become
deep ridges which
I can only feel
with my other hand

their depth a comfort
for it tells me I am
getting old
closer to the end
under a ripped moon
paler and dimmer
than I remember
from back when I
could still count stars

and the sky seems smoky
with the ash of
a burned lifetime
in Earth's fiery arms.

Image result for quarter  moon paintings
Quarter Moon -- Jan Morris

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