I wish maroon was not
rotting — it was never given a chance at love.
And jangling keys, like hallowed windchimes,
ricochet through open, stifling
space. I didn’t take the film
to the dark labs, I let
the plastic mold, I’ll admit. But
bitter was the man who loved not
for loving, only for the limes growing
in the backyard, all maroon-like.
Full, this air is full; this man is sweet.
About the Poet
Miya Segal is a part-time poet and full-time daydreamer. Currently on gap-year, Miya hopes to pursue a degree in literature and philosophy at university in the future. This is her first publication.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.