this is my last attempt.
to reach,
to at least touch the fingertips
of my long gone poetry.
nothing has left in me;
not even the tiniest shards
that can make my blood
my ink.
simple or grand things
I can no longer make figurative.
my metaphors are now mere words;
a prattle.
this is my last attempt.
my final piece.
poetry is mine no more.
— i lost poetry
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
