- Misszombie
A man
Familiar as a photograph
That he once saw
He whispers a question, no
A name,
Gazes like he knows him
But who could remember
A wild animal
With steel for flesh
A storm for a mind
Ice for blood
The man,
Looks like someone
Gazing at a gravestone
His name is on the tip of his tongue
He wants to say it
He's said it many times?
But when he opens his mouth
No name tumbles out,
Just a question
He didn't know he was going to ask
"Who the hell is Bucky?"
YOU ARE READING
Here's a little story
PoetryA collection of poems and short poetic stories by different authors. If you would like to have your story put in here, send it to me via private message with title, correct spacing etc. as I will copy it directly from there. Stories must be short, 7...
