Legs criss-cross on peeling roof tiles.
Ambient light blocked
out most of the stars,
but there were still some
like they didn't want to leave
the moon alone in ink sky.
Legs frozen from sleep
but I like the hollowness that
seeped from toes and
inched up my leg.
I continue to look at the stars.
Hoping that one would become
a fallen angle, a shooting star,
but when has a shooting star
ever come when I needed it to.
Sirens screamed or was it the
screams that sounded like sirens
trying to save a life, but in this world
where gold turned to chains,
ink to webbing, and wrists marked red.
Who would want to be saved?
YOU ARE READING
Dear: Hell
PoesíaThe elevator broke now death played with you all night. - Hell's Deal ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sometimes monsters are real, sometimes Hell is fictional, but both have impacted many lives. So, take seat with some coffee and enjoy this poetry collection.
