novice to her past
set a foot in it
but got burnt
no truce in it
old people with new
masks and whorls
smiles bright as ever
but pulled tautly
for a show
mistaking asphalts
for home
ducking behind each
swirl of silver
the bitter-sweet
aftertaste lingers
of the good times
of the caves
and we reassured
the other that
the world can wait
for us to wane
in our
humongous futures.
YOU ARE READING
Yellow Veins.
PoetryI might say weird stuff and you might understand me. Yellow is the happy blue.
