His holy fire encased hands burnt places not meant to be burnt
His wings pinned me to the bed, and his hundreds of eyes picked me apart
My ears stopped working,
And what he was saying began to sound like and ancient language =
I didn't want to hear it
I wanted is hands off
They burn
Hands meant to be holy,
Burn like Hell.
-A. G
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Soft Hearts Full of Longing
PoetryThese poems discuss difficult topics that I or my friends have experienced in our lives. As some of my favorite poetry authors say ( Lovelace and Kaur) say "Practice self care before, after, and during reading these peoms."
