It hit me like a thunderstorm,
Your wild, shrieking nights,
Your electrical ambiance.
It burnt through my paper-thin
Skin; tearing, tearing, bleeding out
My tattoo; people were smoldering.
We lived in a city where people never
Got old, making the same mistakes,
Over and over; a pinwheel.
Your resilience; we sat on brick walls
And sucked the cement out from
The ugly cracks; a spider web.
We drank the paint dry, we painted our insides,
We were a spectrum of a past that followed you
Like a shadow; unwilling to let go.
My breezy countenance; our mistakes,
We drew patterns in the sky, connecting dots
To a place where anything and everything
Had no beginning or end;
A spiral.
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. ...
