The tablecloth fluttered in the breeze
Like it too was a bride.
The graying sky was a water pipe that had burst
Gushing dark dark water
That flooded every pore of the earth.
It's color was an old mans hair
It was dulled silver linoleum
It was just decay.
The wind had taken
The abandoned basket of flowers
And swept it over the drenched and empty field
Dropping petals as if it was the flower girl instead.
And now the sky has ceased its tears
And the clouds exchange tender goodbyes
As the sun pushes them apart.
Only the veil is left behind
Glistening with dew in the deep August sun.
YOU ARE READING
Art Will Survive, Artists Won't
PoetryThis book is a compilation of free-form poetry that I've written. Most of it is pretty personal, but I hope you'll like it regardless. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: depression, self-harm, lgbtq+, suicidal thoughts
