We
stone eyes,
we throw lies.
We make like the
buzzards and pick the
life out of those who need
only found, parental hands.
We look for our childhood here, there,
everywhere, reminding me that in
every stranger lives a scared, hollow child.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
