Our early cries in the sulking dawn
Will get tired oneday.
Agony will embrace my weak heart
Like you did to me.
But I know it wouldn't leave me
Under the lamppost, alone
Like you did.
This clock ticks—
The windows shut
as I drown into the sea;
Depths of shallowness,
Blinks of grief.
This city can only hear
The heart-rending cry
Of ashes of a primrose.
The wind blow faster,
My heart's ready to explode in brown skies—
This cry will surely find another soul heart to water.
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 ||
