So the trauma of my previous works is over!! *drumroll* *eye roll*. Enjoy!
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dead petunias,
we are alive,
water us, my love,
feel us, breathe us,
our glorious scents,
our drowning life,
we are only as young
as how long the
sun will let us
be.
and now, the ivy, you
come for her
fragrant hand, you
are so afraid of her
thorns, you forget
how dangerous
you can be too.
so we, we are infinite,
and loud, and vibrant,
we sway your world,
we fill your gaps, between
the lines, and then
you pick us out,
piece by piece,
until all that is left
of us is what we
first came
from.
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. ...
