There are 4 fingers and one thumb at the end of this hand,
I want you to grab them, spread each of your twisted knuckle bones,
Knot them over like the stump of a willow tree,
Tangle over the stocky roots and never let go,
Grow and divulge, two entities as one,
Wisom them ancient, skin swimming within broken bones,
And shrivel up peacefully, accomodation for the worms,
Let them do what it does best and give way for the little ones,
As they too within their wooden hearts, find the forest home.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry. Dark.
PoesíaThis collection of poems is dedicated to anyone who has tried to live but events have led them astray It is a mix of dark, somewhat rediculous and poems of the heart, all written to help myself get through the last couple of months Some of these poe...