A safe haven,
Clipped wings.
Sugar syrup, money bags.
Formal ties,
Cursive signatures.
The mahogany table stinks of betrayal.
It waits, waits waits.
A blot of ink.
And it's done.
Applause, everyone.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
