Your voice, that of young hate,
has flown from a fight to a flight.
Red birds in my throat,
heart in hand, lies dried out,
my soul lays out in strips, each one
soaking up your brand new eyes.
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.
Change
Your voice, that of young hate,
has flown from a fight to a flight.
Red birds in my throat,
heart in hand, lies dried out,
my soul lays out in strips, each one
soaking up your brand new eyes.
