Iceland, they call it.
The ice shards melt like acid,
Blue lemonade that bruises
Black sand. Dark soot.
I want to sit, but the water falls
Down,
Down,
Down to sully stone steps
Until the liquid paints seep
Into cheap paper postcards
Who stare at us like we're aliens.
They show rough, ragged mountains,
The edges Ritz cracker edges,
Bitten and crumbled.
I eat another grey sky as we stop
On a lone road. I get sick of it,
Tired of another plate of french fries,
Which appear as frequently
as her panic attacks,
All frenzied and fried and flavorless,
Just like every other ruin.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoesíaExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
