deepundergroundpoetry.com

Villages

She came from St Andrew,
near the A road,
spun a red Jimny,
white walls of snow,
one checked out Winter
smoked Fortuna,
worked a bar on Saturdays,
beside a shop called Saturdays,
opposite a club
filled with spirits
who know it all,
hankered for an anklet
the colour of your lies,
a crystal prism,
for a mache desk,
made with every curve of you,
said she'd go to London,
grow, forget it,
fail, come home,
find you greyer,
bring you down,
screw through thirties,
there was no need
to shoot a line
between you with a crossbow
but that's the thing
about people
birthing love,
think they'll afford
to spend their lives
hung on longing,
not realising
how long life is
and how precarious
the limb.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2 reading list entries 1
comments 2 reads 247
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
COMPETITIONS
Today 4:56am by NANCY_RDZ_STORIES
SPEAKEASY
Today 4:15am by Grace
SPEAKEASY
Today 3:33am by DCLXVI_1989
COMPETITIONS
Today 00:41am by Louismatteo349
SPEAKEASY
Yesterday 11:19pm by Ahavati
POETRY
Yesterday 11:05pm by Grace