There are halls that scream a distant familiarity,
and the faces that ask what it's like to swallow the venom.
And I remind them that winter is coming,
that there's more than the sun shining down on your face.
Outside the icy wind pours and devours the world,
and he with the million faces asks for my name.
And I remind him that I'm not a story you can read over and over again,
And he and his faces wonder why I would say that.
Little does he know I love him,
Little does he know he leaves me.
YOU ARE READING
Noyadé
PoetryA series of small works: finished works and unfinished scraps and sober thoughts and inebriated words and drunk minds and me. All of me in here.
