maybe when i'm dead
my words will be read
as prophetic visions they are
these are not attention seeking machines
just killing wakes in my letting dream
i wish to seek this speck
oh a dream upon an arch
i am the dove
killed not by your mother's stone
but by the ire of his own
my tongue is sharp
cut on my ligaments
like a gypsy with no name
i came to be the end of sleep
only to be the nightmare of my own
YOU ARE READING
if not human
Poetrythe anthology of emotion, the passing of life, the epilogue of pure, unfiltered regret this is "if not human" poems, prose and stories from the dark
