They painted the bridge
And those initials don't exists
All that's left behind
Is ugly yellow splotches
The same shade as the dotted line
It's like
Those people who belonged to those initials
Who drew a heart around them
For every driver and passerby to see
Are gone now
It's like they've vanished
Behind a thick veil of highways paint
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 5
PoetryThis is the fifth installment in the random poetry compilation. There is no rhyme or reason to the poetry; it all exists together. If you've been here a while, you'll know that after 100 poems, there will be another book. I normally rant about my co...
