They said they had miles to go,
Under unforgiving flakes of snow,
Robert Frost they tried to echo,
But it is Tennyson I amour.
They tell me to be what I want,
Sadly to say, wealth I can't flaunt,
My eyes have sunk, my face is gaunt,
I am reduced; only a font.
Fill the hollows; fill my gaps,
Turn around; please go back,
Cut my hair; color the lack,
Target locked; I'll attack.
Willow, burns, grey moths,
Black, blue, destructive thoughts,
Blades, lighters, some pots,
Glazed; eyes, blood clots.
Run, run, run; I am fine,
It's only day; come back at night,
Leave your holster; your frostbite,
My knight; ignite, incite, we'll unite.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
