Jimson Weed//Ghazal Poem

Before the moon shone, your lies kept going. 
I wondered how my cries stopped going. 
A pebble of mint, tell me your disease,
call out your name, the sugared rye going. 
Take Rodin for example, his mind was woeful, 
inhaling the plaster of Paris, eyes not going. 
A glass of absinthe, midnight spies break teeth, 
leave the girl they say, she tries before going. 
Blissed out on jimson weed, a bubblegum dream, 
sexing the night with burger n’ fries we got going.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s