The wires of your childhood
frayed, but still live,
encase your laboring heart,
impaling your brain.
Rotted wood
still allows a foul fire to thrive.
The coals fall apart,
smoke flashing images of pain.
There can be no good
if the flames swallow the drive
to make a new start
against the grain.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoesiaPoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
