deepundergroundpoetry.com

Empty lines
Beneath the loam, my precious will
Aside my tome, a readied quill
Up from the sand, a flaunting hand
Where gestures pose no strict command
I delve into my mother’s breast
To petrify her cruel unrest
To allocate her fulsome scold
Upon my page where letters bold
Within my script all dressed in grey
My mood eclipsed the darkest day
My eyes, unturned from dusk to dawn
Within the depth, these notions spawn
I cannot grip a hand that’s smooth
Upon my heart, you’ve left a groove
No patience spun for tongues that lash
My ovation’s spent on sifting ash
Within your soul, writ empty lines
Within, a hole; no girth to spines
You lack excess in shown regard
You whittle love to where it scars
Aside my tome, a readied quill
Up from the sand, a flaunting hand
Where gestures pose no strict command
I delve into my mother’s breast
To petrify her cruel unrest
To allocate her fulsome scold
Upon my page where letters bold
Within my script all dressed in grey
My mood eclipsed the darkest day
My eyes, unturned from dusk to dawn
Within the depth, these notions spawn
I cannot grip a hand that’s smooth
Upon my heart, you’ve left a groove
No patience spun for tongues that lash
My ovation’s spent on sifting ash
Within your soul, writ empty lines
Within, a hole; no girth to spines
You lack excess in shown regard
You whittle love to where it scars
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