The atmosphere ripples like water.
Water's still as dead.
The skin often melts
By the acidic winds,
Into sweat that tickles.
But sometimes they just itch and burn.
I breathe through the mouth
And wonder if my chapped lips
Are the Winter's memento.
My mind throbs,
As my face turns red hot.
The pitch grey road
Glares into my naked eyes
And turns me cold.
A.D. 15.4.18
YOU ARE READING
Acid Light
PoetryThe rage. The melancholy. The isolation. The burn. Of Tropical Summers. This is my first work here!! :') Beginner's luck? let's hope.
