A single flame flickers
out of the window.
The despair hides in the raindrops
that washes the dirt off your face,
The whip of time
upon the soft skin
has turned it blue.
A white lady sits on a rock
every night,
staring at the midnight blue water;
she's waiting for glee to return one spring.
The girl on the balcony,
tries to find happiness
inside the little screen,
she's named "jackpot"
The heartbroken lad writes the words
he couldn't ever say to any—
forgotten words dipped in blue bruises.
Spring comes, spring goes,
the hours pass—a distance of anger and calm,
of love and hatred falls apart.
Each spring brings color,
not all are bright, nor all are pale.
Some stained in our laughs,
some in the bluebird's song,
some in the tune of the balcony,
and some in the young soldier's blood.
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A/N: Believe me or not, I wanna paint your kind votes in gratitude :)
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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 ||
