Slip of the Tongue ~ A Collection of Poetry

Erstwhile

You're the color of rusted iron gates in those abandoned old homes
and I'm the color of their bones. 

Here beneath us, she dances a while,
spinning and drinking like that of a forgotten child.
Slipping through the cracks,
a voice, a whisper, a small defined clack. 

All they do is consume,
raging on as the shadows loom. 
And we follow them ceaselessly,
a distinguished beat fleeing freely. 

Until all is broken, all is lost,
a pile of fractured ribs and ash overgrown with
moss.