The giant white dream,
once blue,
writes itself into a lullaby.
The tears are cold,
free to freeze,
free to burn like fire
on the tongue of an Earth
now dying in flames.
A grand ball upstairs,
gentler than ever,
blankets the eyelids
of an insomniac town.
When the flakes fall,
dying dramatic deaths.
will the future start soon,
and will it start when
this day
dives
into you, rose-stained
as I?
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.
