deepundergroundpoetry.com
dust.
I'm choking
on the ink-dipped fingers
of verbs & metaphors
still lodged in this bruised,
paper crane throat;
the starving,
dead-flower scent
of your words,
still kissing my ribs.
How can you judge me-
when you don't bother
to read the naked poetry
beneath the temple of my flesh?
How long can butterfly
ankles hold up a
star-soaked frame?
Don't bother whispering
your secrets to nebulae,
not even the dust in my veins
will listen anymore.
on the ink-dipped fingers
of verbs & metaphors
still lodged in this bruised,
paper crane throat;
the starving,
dead-flower scent
of your words,
still kissing my ribs.
How can you judge me-
when you don't bother
to read the naked poetry
beneath the temple of my flesh?
How long can butterfly
ankles hold up a
star-soaked frame?
Don't bother whispering
your secrets to nebulae,
not even the dust in my veins
will listen anymore.
Published 19th Dec 2012
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19th Dec 2012 4:16pm
