Sad Labels:
sad poems
,
sad poetry
we stand under the icicles as the winter slowly forgets. counting each drop until.
our simple lies complicate us. burdened by the weight of our skin.
killers with touch as our only weapon.
our breadcrumbs leading us back to empty graves.
there are no colors in the density of circumstance. there are no windows in the sober of if.
in the auction of trust, these bodies are merely payment.