“i am done with you,”

the moon said to the poets
and disappeared.

who will now take the shape/size/stigma
of a wiling metaphor,

for the face of the beloved,
for the lip-service of madness,
for the tongue-tied tears of memories,
for the handheld company of solitary souls,

gazing through a window-screen
at a moon-less sky?

© Anmol Arora

A 55-worded verse for Weekend Mini-Challenge: Strange News at WRT