deepundergroundpoetry.com

Innocence

Gasoline dribbles through my hand
with patchwork lies on the patchwork sand.
I stencil colours into myself,
kicking it on the loveless shelf
and answers; they do not come to me.
The lies remain all that I can see,
I do not care,
you are not there.
There is just a mirage of what has been
and the remaining damage of a love caught between
the gaps of my gasoline covered fingertips
with patchwork lies I cannot forget.[/font]
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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