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Harmattan Poems I-V


Everything is in
a state of gradual decline:
our conversations
taper off the anticline
and dwindle into silence.

With time the music
will get on your bloody nerves:
your lips will bleed and
kisses taste like rusted nails;
speech will be spare and thirsty

We've spent our old days
swiping through false memories
by frigid windows
wet with tears, or sometimes rain;
should we go outside to dry?

A chorus of dead
leaves rises with each footfall;
haze disperses in
all directions, as if from
some lone dementor fleeing

Sand between my toes;
Coconuts like shriveled tits
Clap against the breeze.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
How was my language use?
Last few words: 
A series of poems written about the Harmattan season.
Editing stage: 


It is filled with so many metaphors that you could call it that. The language use is spectacular.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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