Every Day
The water is cold.
Ice.
The water is a creature whose teeth bite into me
Over and over and over and over again.
Ice.
My lungs become mangled by the ferocity.
Before long, they are shreds within my body,
And the water feasts of my insides.
Ice.
Before long, the cold is all I know,
And I sit with the creature in the depths,
Still and trapped in its domain,
Completely full of ice.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Prophecies
PoesíaRain falls in crosshatch across the lamp lit sky, splattering the asphalt ground with splashes of reflected light. I look at the sketchbook in my hand and trace the penciled rain and smudged glow. It was shit. I let to book fly onto the muddy grass...
