Her face pale,
Fingers covering her mouth,
Her lips stale,
Like she's too tired to shout.
Her curves go round and round,
Sleeping like the autumn flower,
Beautiful, but without a sound.
Her skin condensed,
A silent drizzle pouring,
From clouds with thunders soaring.
She sleeps alone in this lonely night,
Her bare breasts, a contour in the light.
Her eyes ripple, like she might,
Catch our sinful sight!
She lies in the field of feathers, baby like.
I wonder who named her aphrodite.
YOU ARE READING
For I Was God.
PoetryPoems that put emotions to words, painting a vivid and disturbing picture of the human psyche down the path to insanity. At times terrifying, at times profound, and at times brilliant.
