I feel a poem, I feel a pain
echoing inside me like a fable
only the shadows share when
they're bored of human tears.
Over the years, I've grown old
in these bones and I never wrote
most of the lovely stories under
my skin I meant to tell,
and now
I'm not even sure there's any
ink left to wet the words
pooling like ancient
blood and dreams
in my heart.
But as long as I can
still trace my name
in the dust, I know
I'll try to cast yet
another spell.
*For the Age of Dreamers.
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.
