there is a garden in my mind
where they buried a child,
so she rose from the dead blind,
eyes filled with the soil they pilled.
tutankhamen, toys stolen from her brother,
she roams this body, but finds no other.
in the locket of my lungs
built into my ribcage,
a family speaks in old tounges
lost when they started to age.
music box, snowglobe, round
and round, not to be spoken until she's in the ground.
in the wrinkles of my hand
are the stories I've told,
each one my dreamland
where I hide from growing old.
blank graveyard plot promise,
future photo book pages,
a hand has no choice
but to keep writing their voice
YOU ARE READING
hope and half mangled poetry
Poetryˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹poems that ive been writing recently. ◃ ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ 》hope, longing, nostalgia, change, identity, death. 《 blood bled pure: nostalgia is the muse and dredging is the art i hold lost people like trinkets, and parade them in my heart. the past...
