LI.
he wakes in the night,
the bed half-cold.
he moves to shift the lonely feeling,
coughs to fill the space in the room
& screams to fill the house.
still sharp, a little broken,
he is envious of the branches outside
as they are greeted by the sun.
he continues to fly.
A
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fifteen (XV)
Poetryi prick my finger on a rose in my garden. my blood is not red. i take the wind caressing my face as a silent apology. cover art made by doradorapuff on tumblr. [2015] thank you to everyone who shared with me these short poems as they were published...
