—it dances to death like forest fires
crumbling to it's knees
a parched plague with hungry eyes
that cannot feel its feet
upon its highest brow
the sweat freely gleams
all of this fun, it seems
has been a fever dream
it's a wicked little thing
and i bet they would all agree
because wicked knows as wicked does
and to them, it surely was
Hysterically,
RB
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a/n: have a lovely winter solstice my dears.
YOU ARE READING
bare-bones
Poetryloitering illegally in the graveyard ___________________________________________ a poetry book dedicated to every cell in your body @timespieces Copyright 2017
