Bags of false hope,
Hooked on stands,
Cold drips that call on me to cope;
And pry me loose from these bony lands.
The rain forms veins,
Upon my view,
Trails of clear blood with no set lanes;
Fall slowly to the bottom, where the Raven flew.
Contained in Purgatory,
Wails of the damned,
Dealt a bum hand, that’s their story;
Left in the dust, and buried in the sand.
YOU ARE READING
The Boney King Of Nowhere
Poésie"There's always a siren, singing you to shipwreck." A collection of my poetry. Hope you enjoy.
