Reddish scraping mark up my walls of which I cower behind. A loss of my religion, choke me and blind me. Throw me in a darkened hall.
Your hair slide along your softest coatings. Your floral patterned lace, dance around your flaws that colonise your atlas.
Eyes of saddened skies, a tear run a river of their blood. Dilute your smile, Crack your laughter.
Your attitude a knife to warming butter. Golden slick wash the bed of which we sleep in. An interception of metals and materials.
These walls we held so tight seem a hinderence to your vanquishment. A border to your cup. A rim to your tarnished pan.
See, when the clouds’ hands laid carpet for our paved soil, only your shame will recall your name.
A monument to all that is bad. Carved from the hands of a desperate man. Into such uneased chiseled stone.
Share:
love can be fickle.
I think I may be reading too much into this?
hmm? what were you thinking
I was just feeling lots of pain while reading these deep lines.
Sorry to have caused you unease. I wish to connect with the reader, it’s a personal experience for the poet and the reader. So I’m in a way glad that it connected with you in the same way it does with me.