lipstick blood
smudges like bruises
on white black hands
and gossamer neck
eyes rolling frontwards
the pigeons are dead
the swallows are flying free
towards the cats' mouths
and we are significant in this small world
cracked paper like the skin of my hands
my hospital gown smells like winter days
and i am pixie in the cage
gossamer pigeons
white black frontwards
the swallows are like bruises
on the cats' bare hands
and we are significant in this small world
YOU ARE READING
Inkmouth
Poetryin the plethora of pornography options for the modern saint [Poetry #51] [2015]
