there is mottled skin and gritty frowns,
skull crackling with dead foliage and
scabbed ashen scars on knuckles.
he is cut with salt.
and yet there is also
hoarse poetry and ragged grins,
hope like fire-fuelled revolutions
and a spine rivalling that of apollo.
he is nurtured with sun.
warmth washes away
stains of salted crimson.
YOU ARE READING
romanticism of monsters
Poetrycareworn and smiling with a crooked grin, adoration slept in the wrinkles beside his eyes as he observed the mosaic beauty. she held his callused palm in hers and whispered to the moon; "tonight, we're monsters." romanticism isn't always beautifu...
