Skeletal leaves in the pale artificial light.
An owl calls out in the distance,
Somehow more real than the lines
ghosting my palms,
More real than the thoughts that drift
and glide in my head
Like the dead leaves scudding across the floor.
The dirt under the nails is just dirt,
The nails are insubstantial;
The pain is real and the flesh is not.
The whispery calls grow louder.
She is coming to find me.
Beloved, take me home!
YOU ARE READING
We Are Still Growing
PoetryThis is my 3rd poetry book. I am leaving the first 2 on my account as they are part of my past and a way to mark how far I've come, but they are, as the kids say, mad cringe. Just a little collection of my newer poetry, for my own sake really. Pleas...
