This world's not my place:
This living world of doubt and misery.
Beautiful and ordinary, the way things couldn't be.
As this heart grows louder,
a stiffer silence.
A fevered touch of bare skin and a glass of champagne.
Grey streets flicker in evening giggles;
Darkness growls behind the skyline.
A completely new city grows in this heart;
numerous words seep through.
Giant fireflies glimmer the hymns of lost boys
in the summer breeze
that this world can never know
until the sad pattern of late sun
on the gray floor
will vanish before choking my breath,
and death will erase the colors
of all of my pain.
The sky will remain colored,
the chilly scent of wildflowers:
A thousand years passed by in the warmth of winter;
Hearts die, and souls rise in the waves of loneliness.
It's still raining mid-winter, blank in melancholy.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
