Water
Drops of future war-worthy liquid,
pounds gracefully upon the roof.
People scatter out of the downpour,
into squares and squares of dry hideouts.
Paying all but our souls,
for what rains down on our flesh.
Hiding from the answer,
while crying about the drought.
Isn't it ironic,
how we run from what we fight for.
Isn't it ironic,
how we pray, for what we polute.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Paper Cut Eyes
PoesíaThese are just some of the poems I write. My emotions in writing.
