The Holy Ghost of your peppermint gum steals more than the sin of my breath.
It gathers the parts of my broken soul and cuts the anger of my mask into a grin.
You're the nightlight of the fear of always been in the dark heart.
You speak as though your light can be the the beacon to keep me from oblivion.
Call me home now.
I've never know of such a thing.
Call me home now.
I've never known of such a god.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
