What is love to the dead,
but a cold dark and desperate place? Like the space between our hearts. Where even light refuses to penetrate.
Memories
Packed away in suitcases
Stored in dark closets
Collecting dust
Love refused as old clothes
Unfit for use
Tattered and scattered about her
Heart
Like tumbleweeds on a prairie
Dessicated under the sun
Will she ever love again
She doubts it
For the pang of heartbreak has
Taken its toll and left her Shameless
Now she finds solace
In the empty faces of the
Myriad men and women
Who fancies her punani for
Pennies on the pound
An endless parade of
Debauchery and degradation
In which she
If only for a moment
Pretends to be loved
It is in this state of
Exhilarated emotions that
She feels totally alive
Totally free to be herself
To breathe
To love and be loved
If only for a moment
It feels real it feels
Tangible
In this she finds comfort
With this
She finds...
Peace
YOU ARE READING
Fallen Stars
PoetryA collection of poetry, prose, brevity, musings, writings and chaotic scribbling from dachaoticmind.
