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Soulful pour

Morning arrived with an icy slap
of good intentions — a cheeky
reminder to weather another day.

The sun illuminates colorful leaves
left lazing through the autumn night,
packed tight by soles of passersby
enjoying the crush underfoot.

Sometimes I think I’d like to unpack
my soul and watch it pour
onto the ground just to see
the size of the mark you’ve left on it.

In the light we could marvel at the brilliance
of two souls cascading leisurely
together through whatever passes.

Weeding

Insomnia took root in the fragments of the night
that buzzed through my mind like an earthquake
swaying my base and screeching for attention.

It’s a monster.

The persistent ogre waits to spring,
even as I hide under cover
beneath the canopy of stars stretched
too tightly this cool evening.

Of course love is fearless, steadfast as it sustains us.

Those stems that sprout where we sow seeds
have the power to overwhelm weeds that found root
and together we drown out the din entirely.

I sleep soundly at last.

Spider’s web

I didn’t intend to disturb
the spider’s web as it twinkled
in the last of the evening light.
I was mesmerized by the soft knell

of the wind chimes announcing
the end of another day, the dirge
distracting me from the poor arachnid’s
impressive work. What remains seems

inadequate, or at least insufficient,
to capture dinner, and I wonder
if the spider will eat tonight
or begin work on another web,

empty stomach cursing the giant
thoughtless storm who lacked
the sense to walk around the glinting
piece of art now disappearing underfoot.

Whispers through me

The memory we created that night
comes asking for blueberries when I close
my eyes. Purple juice carries more weight
when pinched between two fingers.

Tomorrow jumps two ways if we let it. A comet
tells its tale for only a moment, though its arc
burns purple against black, as if we should
be expected to remember the contrast.

That night I held her hair in my fingers. Promises
of tomorrow whisper through me still, echoes
smoldering in a crescent-shaped bend near
places I had forgotten could feel warmth.

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About Me

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives, writes, and watches old episodes of Doctor Who. He’s only recently published his first collection of poems: Paint the Living, Plant the Dead. His poems have appeared in numerous publications including Galway Review, Vita Brevis Press, Olive Skin, Spillwords, and others.

His debut novel, The Alien in the Backseat, is available on Amazon.

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