My fingers brush your fingertips
Your voice is in my ear
Your ling'ring touch still on my lips
The tragedy still here
The color frays a chilling dawn
The smears still compromise
With all I ever counted wrong
The melting shadows fly
It's rubbing off on concrete road
Till naught but dust is left
Then comes the rain and overflows
A rainbow colored mess
Beware the lies of permanence
Don't fall in masquerade
For once your chalk-art love is drenched
Imagination fades.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Confusion
PoetryDiana Miller is schizophrenic...or at least she thinks so. She has never been clinically diagnosed because her father believes that mental illness is demon possession, and she knows he would never take her to a psychiatrist. To cope with her inner c...
