it was always fingers caressing lattice.
white and dull americana with
slow metronomes in our pockets..
pouring whiskey’d lemonade into nightly graces.
imagine the bewilderment as
a sharp pang shot through the crevices
and began a bitter ache..
a sour wherewithal growing
ardent in our breast.
we would have to bury ashes
in wet and vibrant marshes,
that much we always knew.
-SC
sheila sea 
This is a sharp poem, lingually crafted, right out of nature, that raises questions and insultingly refuses to answer. Nice job.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I can’t ask for a better critique.. thanks a lot. 🙂
LikeLike
You are a sharp poet, linguistically graced, a force of nature; whose work evokes questions that only a kindred soul could answer. Nice, really flippin’ nice, job!
LikeLiked by 1 person
haha, thanks. What a perfect thing to read first thing in the morning.. I really appreciate it. 🙂
LikeLike
🙂 🙂 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person