quiet mind
all out of place
subtle hints
and wind that has
no face
winter arrives
and with it, it carries
no skin
to deflect the shrapnel
spring decides to deliver
on a whim. prized eyes
pale skin
frozen bodies
and then
cut limb to limb
eyes like candles
the moon
balanced on wind
this is where the dead sing
and where we
commit our
terrible sins
•
is this book getting too long?? there's literally 82 chapters of my bullshit, and I'm considering making another one. tell me what u think.
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.
