we look like messy handwriting.
we sound like thunder and lightning.
the parchment has been smuged with graphite.
the sky is terrifyingly bright at this time of night.
we feel like an irregular heartbeat.
we smell like fresh meat.
the organ seems to have forgotten how to keep steady.
the prey certainly wasn't ready.
we taste like black licorice.
we have no sixth sense unless you count bitterness.
i want to go to this graveyard you see.
now i understand there's a storm raging outside,
but at the moment it is the only place i have the will to be.
let's not worry about the state of our hearts at the present time.
just let me take this blotched parchment,
with all it's wrinkles and grime,
let me take the paper and put it at the foot of our grave.
Oh you didn't know?
Our friendship had drowned underneath a vigorous wave.
And the saddest part is,
our five senses did not have the strength to save it.
YOU ARE READING
Eunoia
PoetryBehind every poem is a story too afraid to be told bluntly. . . . I intend to write to make you feel.
