Mar 25
A boiling pot of tar,
A gurgling spilling cauldron.
With clawed feet,
Talons that dripped in gold and gems.
A living, swelling stew,
A festering, breathing sludge.
That drowned me.
Pulling me in, deeper and deeper,
Suffocating my lungs of that precious air.
Burning my lashes and brows,
Bubbling up my nostrils.
Dousing my mind in darkness.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry For The Lost People
Poetry365 observations and comments about society, life and love throughout 2022. Come with me on my journey day by day, as I write what I've always wanted to say. There is no method or planning, just thoughts and perceptions about the way of the world. A...
