deepundergroundpoetry.com

Walker

 
It astounds;        
emitting from the quiet hills        
And I know    
I am not ready,        
       
In the grassy marsh,        
I sense your elegance following me        
Your frail spine, still lingering in       
the wooden framework of my opened door.       
       
Walking here has always burned me,        
       
On occasion I wander past your foolish name,  
Questions spill like pennies from my mind        
morphed into some wishing filled trough.        
       
In the waters I can feel your thirst drowning me        
Sun-flowered and soothing like a beating heart,        
Our infections together become sweet clever disguises        
This open wound where only pain will muddle        
       
The taste is life metallic        
Our prayers from the grave        
The final sentence weeping        
as we leave here riddled.        
       
 
Written by Perdition
Published | Edited 21st Oct 2015
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