I'm empty,
And the wind whistles through me
Lifting small cloud of dust and some dust is blown away
And other shifts but stay
The me of me is melted
Down to the metal base of a blackened wick,
And where did all my candles go?
There was a bright light for awhile
I'm an aching lump of working organs,
A dry eyed, weak limbed, and a slope back thing
I keep repeating the truth
Trying to think true things
But they're no more real than things that aren't
And so the outside is as empty as me
Blank, with barely the courage to smile
YOU ARE READING
The Fear of Drowning Deep
PoetryShe was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful something to be admired from a distance not up close. - A little talent is a good thing to have if you ever want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every...
