Stare out of glass bars to the world outside and let the view wash over the back of the mind.
The frustration of a false freedom and a silent scream wants to break out seek and find.
Man or child, think or feel, fight or flee.
Wink to the sky and let it pass as a shadow over a grave of a minus human.
The pressure of lost tears and drowned out words are building up around the fields where I ran.
Friend or foe, hammer or anvil, player or puppet.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoetryThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
