though she's gone,
i know she's somewhere out there,
looking at us and thinking.
lips closed and iced eye,
insomnia is still being the poetry i knew.
she's still being the metaphor i wanted to understand.
but now the words are hidden, covered by black ink.
and i can't see them.
YOU ARE READING
insomnia.
Random«her name was insomnia, and she was the greatest metaphor a poet has ever written.»
