The stories line my vaguely painted body
on bleak cigarette nights—
their inertia heavies my limbs;
I can't walk down the crooked lane.
They sing of fading emeralds and ruby eyes
at sleepless nights—
filled with cerulean depths;
A handwritten forge of gore and rage.
And they remain like that
until they survive the waves and auric cracks
of smiling afar and never moving back—
to where we belonged.
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A/N: Ouch! It hurts, right? Never moving back at all? But that's what we live our all with, don't we? Why not vote to feel much better? Thanks! :)
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 ||
