The birds remain as gray memories,
Shades of green and blue play along.
The echoes fill the bright sky,
The smell of rose in a faded song.
These moments quickly fly away with time
into the hollow depths of blankness,
As the tangled web of spurious voids
Drown this heart into the bleeding ocean.
The drunken delight of hours standing,
makes us forget the birds of this town,
where none is alive except the lingering echoes of green, grey, and blue.
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A/N: Are votes too not alive? I wonder...
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
