The voices sound like tin and I don't understand, the emotion they once held has been lost in translation, this carriage feels cheap, I experience every battering of wind and sand. I ride together with the others but my mind remains separate, tired, a headache, this is the lie I sell, an award I should receive for grasping this concept so well. The waves rise high above us and begin to swirl, a sort of galactic twirl, tinted green. A monster of more envy I have not ever before seen, it longs for but a touch of earth and sees that we may walk, so it sweeps us up and away. My imagination has been made too real on this tired day
YOU ARE READING
All the Notes I'll Never Leave
PoetryDark poetry from a dark mind. Enter only to see the world from upside down, backwards, and behind.
