Whispers from the mist:
Tales of my misdemeanor.
I silently make a fist,
But I don't know who for
Eyes trained on me,
Seeing someone else.
But still, I must flee,
When the claim is false.
My voice was stolen
My experience ignored
Hunted by fellow men
To be put to the sword.
YOU ARE READING
Vague
PoetryHave you ever talked to yourself in your thoughts? Maybe thought someone could be listening?
