she crumbles
like her last screw has
loosened and
her structure is
collapsing -
not the way
a star does
in an explosion
so large and
so glorious
it is almost
romantic,
in a way.
no,
she collapses like
an old, weathered
building that's finally
given out.
she comes apart,
disintegrating,
until all that's left is
ashes and rubble and
dust.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n.) a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. an anthology of visceral verses and pretentious poetry. (this is a collection of my shorter pieces).
