Our hands reached,
through dark clouds and fading sky,
and into mud and sand and clay,
we dug ourselves a grave.
Where is the end of things?
What line was crossed to tear apart the fabric?
So many tears. And patches sewn,
and now it has become a hideous work of art,
frayed, and splintered, and worn beyond repair.
Love does not deliver to this address, anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Please Don't Touch
PoetryPlease Don't Touch is my first self-published book of poetry, written and published originally in 2012. #51 in Poetry, 3 June, 2017 #85 in Poetry, 4 June, 2017 #108 in Poetry, 25 May, 2017 #136 in Poetry, 26 May, 2017 #149 in Poetry, 24 May, 2017 #1...
