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Let me fill with a little poem
This night void of your words
My bed empty of your embrace
A sky bereft of flying birds.
Let me recite to these ceilings
Verses on how I have sneakily sinned
Theories on why I have proudly hated
Plus a word on how I'm blatantly undone.
Let me resurrect my rhymes to life
And weave rhythm into my veins
Greet politely to these old friends
Walls that stand and floors so lain.
Let me take a fleeting look
At the aging paint of the wooden door
Droplet marks on all three mirrors
Scratches from furniture moving on the floors.
Let me hear in hollow silence
The sound of moles housing the dark
Odd squeaks from fat retired fans
And the vacuum only I do hark.
Let me feel against my skin
A mattress made of yellow foam
Wavy flicks splayed on a soft pillow
Eyes droopy with senses gone.
- His Queen
YOU ARE READING
The Mist
PoetryA stroll down misty streets in the hilly terrains of poetry. Foggy nights on the radio. Every chapter is a standalone.
