smooth stones boast her name. in both execution and resolve. the unfortuante future of the circumstance withers. confesses. to knowing it was always lost. just pretending to believe. in something other than whsipers in the storm.
the dance resolves to the mania. gentle dimples in the swaying wall. the distance long. the journey short. poison apples are what feed us all.
stiff shadows write her vows. to empty gods and tempting flames. the world ends quietly. not loud like we had imagined. spinning rooms. boast windows. overlook the glass.
whispers steal the stories from her lips. angles draw tomorrow under her skin. tracing the cold outlines heroes with dry markers and broken pencils.
a series of colorless heavens welcoming the condemned.
Saturday
5/11/2013 12:38:00 AM
| Life Poems |