it is the coldest of nights
with glass shard skies
time flying by
stomachs rumbling
and the earth succumbing
to our cacophonous cries. like a bird
the sun escapes us
the moon on its wings
and people staring up at their ceilings
dreaming about an american dream.
that cheeky bastard down the street
wished you happy birthday
he'd ran a few blocks to meet me
found out you weren't there
and fixed me with a stare.
"where is she?" he asked
lungs heaving
eyes disbelieving
and when I said
I last saw her on Tuesday,
in his hands he held his head.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
