deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dawn of Pushpins
Bleeding the rain streaking the window pane red.
In your hands, my soul, in solemn nights. Strings of a
cello chastising my melancholia from the quill of the
Apothecary as the powder of dust rubs off onto
my grave. Leaving a scent of hysteria chained to the
inkwell, with the lusting of a sentimental fool.
Mourning the dawn of pushpins and shadows of
Hydrangeas on my wall. Listening to insomnia
clinging to my insanity. Thinking I heard the canary
fall.
In your hands, my soul, in solemn nights. Strings of a
cello chastising my melancholia from the quill of the
Apothecary as the powder of dust rubs off onto
my grave. Leaving a scent of hysteria chained to the
inkwell, with the lusting of a sentimental fool.
Mourning the dawn of pushpins and shadows of
Hydrangeas on my wall. Listening to insomnia
clinging to my insanity. Thinking I heard the canary
fall.
Published 8th Sep 2023
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26th Feb 2024 8:20pm
Very dark and somber vibes I received here. Great poem with a cool image.
26th Feb 2024 9:15pm
