the paint is fresh
spread across once white walls
lavender blue, lavender green
the prettiest colors ever seen
the paint is dry
with marks of time
crayons and pencils and burns
from life and its twists and turns
the paint chips away
old, worn out
the drywall behind is bare
no one is left to care
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
