when the sun doesn’t speak

there are some days
the sun doesn’t wish to
speak to us, so she weakly
covers up, pulls up a cloak
of clouds to block the way
between us, so our gaze
is haunted by a rainy gray
her murmurs muffle, becoming
thunder rustling through
the leaves of the sky

the kings

we frown at ugly things eating
holes into our pretty things
so we kill them all and become
the kings of all ugly things
our bites are worse than
their stings, because we are
the end of the end of their things

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: pest


rulers have the sharpest edges
we are never satisfied – falling
short of tiptoeing along the ledge
of the lines and cliffs we have
sketched for ourselves, bitter
with absence of gratification when
our actions and words are still
out of reach of another person’s
ladder rungs – we are hung up
on skipping stones, counting
numbers upward – leaning
toward the infinite – when,
merely as humans – our only
measures are the breaths
we take in and out within
this very minute