she said don't worry
the storm will be over soon
but she doesn't know about the
coffin in my closet
the cadavers in my brain
that speak to me in silent raging whispers
with chilly ivory fingertips grasping at my spirit
whispers in the night of drunken sailor's tunes and shipwrecks
echoing through the murky blackness of my morning coffee.
YOU ARE READING
a collection
Poetrythis is just a place to save my writing, actually. i don't particularly care if it's ever read.
