When the writing is jolly but the message is wrenching,
the tides pull back creeping to the ocean.
With a skipping rhythm and humming tone,
the waves return like vengeance coming.
With letters and words written in glitter
and letters in envelopes in darkened blood,
both angel and devil on your shoulders nod;
unharmed when stabbed, a retracting dagger.
A harmless egg come a venomous serpent,
an untouched mine aged to a dud.
A book by its cover judged then repent.
Not prompted, or rather, prompted by my own writing. I noticed how my poems tend to have a seemingly high note but tells of a different story, or would start high then end low. There’s some weight to the words but they don’t drag you down. Like a tint over the window of the poem.
Flipped Serendipity 