Memories can sit anywhere they please
Like in a periwinkle sky.
Mornings to work, screaming with blaring music
Is very opposite to how soft the colors blend
As if Monet painted the clouds himself.
Innocuous cues hide in the soft morning light,
Caught in plain sight, yet invisible to the eye.
Soon I can't help but think
Like Santa my list is being tallied
With only the naughty side being marked.
Where do you go when it falls apart?
When every square meter is a festering sore?
Cut away the narcotic flesh,
Burn the hole that has been left behind,
And run away through periwinkle skies.
YOU ARE READING
Processing
PoetryA collection of poetry across ages, moments, and confusion. Tw - read at own desire
