Believe the deceived.
Midnight is that
of a feeble meaning,
Its ashy touch is
toxic to the flinch.
Channeling rivers.
Moonswept times.
You run to the
edge of night.
It is here that
you finally
understand.
In the abscence
of nothing, you
defend the
everything.
What is this,
a noon gleaming
in a frozen Arctic
wind? Eternal day
shies from the
completed clock
face. Tick, tock.
YOU ARE READING
Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.
