Behind that canvas that I perfect the most tragic scenes of my life.
I often wonder of the atmosphere in such an enclosed space,
Thinking of the stunted beauty hiding her scent of poetry
In Such a muddy ditch.
Wounds so sickly sweet now inconsolable by exchange or cackle,
Surely must always remain untended, un-nursed.
When titillation is a fools errand,
And the truth is a deafening scream in the night,
You must always be the reflector of my melancholy drip.
Tightly will my imagination wrap you.
Softly will my senses keep you.
Forever will my soul miss you.
Goodbye will my lips never shape.
No comments:
Post a Comment