The scorpion on your neck, hidden behind your hair. Always wanting to get out, always wanting to escape.
The old fashioned colors of time passing by. So green like hope, and green like fresh cutted grass.
The sharp shape of it, making my eyes burn. Trying to ignore the signals, trying to avoid the cause.
The indefinite substance, that will endure. Till my bones turn to dust, till my love starts to grow old.
YOU ARE READING
Flowers of my life
PoetryPoems. Based on women that came (but eventually left, too) into my life to stay forever. Even tho, the roots of these flowers are fed on unrequited love, they are enduring and gorgeously painful.
