Today's prompt is to write a 10 line poem in which each line is a lie. But isn't all poetry a lie to some extent, an imagining? As fiction is defined, 'a lie to show the truth.'
I've been wanting to write about the pink moon for a while now. And this slipped into my mind when I sat down to today's prompt.
The moon turns on its own axis,
changes colour with every month,
a different hue for every mood.
There's a woman who lives there
her broken light a silver song
to serenade the earth, a distant love.
And in April she blushes pink
with all those thoughts of love
that spring beams back, all the nectar
of hearts pink and full and open.