Frosted letters in casual accents
in lieu of brutal ignorance.
A love of bruised knuckles,
A beloved tragic romance.
More dependent than
a moth and the yucca.
More obsessed than
a moth is to the flame.
Sadistic delight,
Lump of liability,
Cancerous love,
Such a pity.
Threads of silk that
cuts like a torn glass,
Like a sip of sacred venom,
Like an impending death
That comes many decades late
on an autumn of heartache.
~25/10/24 EH ©
🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸
Word count - 75
Lines - 6
And it's ok. It's never too late.
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