Excuse my absence, it's been a tough few weeks unfortunately in which a crisis has ousted poetry for a more pressing practicality.
But. Onwards. For poetry is always a salve.
I accidentally read the prompt wrong today - instead of stealing one famous line to start with, I'm using several. A big nod to T.S Eliot.
Another
Maybe April is the cruelest month -
breeding love out of the deadlands,
mixing memory with regret, new buds
with old imaginings.
For to make an end is to make a beginning.
How long, how often, we've tried to start anew,
but happiness is a grafted plant
that refuses to grow in shallow soil
rife with rocks, and not-so-nimble fingers.
Do I dare disturb it?
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons
the taste of each new day a stimulant;
night, a back-to-black affair.
Where have all the bells gone?
Exultant, ye who go on.
Let us go then, you and I
to a place just shy of sky, huddled
together so well they'll strain to know us.
Consider my universe disturbed.
Love is a madman's song
querying the dawn.
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