There is no standing still
In this high, weathered place.
The sweet gale tugs,
Like infant fingers, at the cloth
Where your body hides;
Hurries you along;
Beheads the flowers so that they
Brush your cheek;
Brings bitter brine
To blind you and
Gritty, scented loam
To choke you.
Let go.
Be blown away.
Be free.
S.S.
YOU ARE READING
My Heart-Shaped Box
PoésieThis is a small collection of some random poetry from my life, I believe that in reading a person's writing you can get an insight into the person they truly are, so this is me and I hope you like who I am
