When my lungs become as bare as the winter trees,
Who will utter my name?
When my skin shrivels and lays riddled with earth,
Who will mourn me?
When there is nothing left of me but my words,
Will they still be spoken?
Will I become who I wish to be only after death has come and gone?
For I wish to be timeless,
A story to which there is no end,
Not a person, but a chorus of verses and syllables spoken all at once by all that care to do so.
I suppose that dreaming to be a story is incomprehensible to most,
Yet it is all I have ever longed for.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Pained
PoesíaA collection of words both happy and sad strewn together to create awful poetry.
