they say this is a lost city.
she breathes air, grey viscosity
overdoses on luminosity
and between fits of verbosity
remembers her girlfriend,
reaching terminal velocity
velociraptors speed through red-light districts on red lights
shepherds no longer smile at the sight of red nights
she kneels at shrines sealed with the souls of dead knights
when asked "How are you?", she replies "Alright"
"I'll write home," she promises but there is nothing to write about
yes, she watches the gangs, and sometimes she'll sight a rout
and she wonders if their whiskey stores, like hers, could fight a drought
without a doubt
in her head.
without a clout
on her head.
without a shout
in her head
begging for home, but dear
home is here.
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A/N: Feels so good to rhyme.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoetryAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
