You have spilled out my soul,
Turned it dull and crestfallen.
Have you heard the shattering voice?
When my sound was plunged
In deafening silence.
Before beauty and poise,
There was once a narrowed prison.
Dear, it reminds me
of your squinting eyes,
And your antipathy in my triumph.
It sets me into nuisance
Like a bursting wildfire burning my skin.
But as I disperse your rain,
I am leisurely healing the wounds,
My doubts. . .
And my darkest fears.
YOU ARE READING
| march and phantom.
PoetryHe is the corpse of my existential avenue, creeping towards a clandestine affair.
