Weekly Haiku 22


Apologies for posting late–I was pretty busy yesterday and the haiku completely slipped my mind.



What pale words I scrawl,

So like unto all others;

Nothing left is new.



What strife born of art;

Does a writer bleed out ink?

Do bards cry in song?



Cry fear in the night;

What strange darkness lurks within

The mind’s dim corners?



I revel in words,

Their beautiful coherence;

What pleasure spoken.



It’s really hot out,

Like, unreasonably so.

God I hate Summer…



How ants do scurry

Over and across the ground;

Lives spent in motion.


All haiku copyright © 2013 by Michael Vest



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