My body rejects
My very own soul.
The flowers in the vase
Are wilted and cold.
No hope, they sing,
Bleeding white blood
The voice of the forsaken,
The voice of your love.
Tainted by virtue
Blessed by sweet night
Feel the water rushing in
And hold me oh so tight as
I am swept under but
your
embrace
It-
I lose you but
the feeling the
memory
Of your arms, lips,
body
It is imprinted onto me,
A leaf crayoned over,
Starlight never fading even in sun
Fossils embedded in rock
And then I'm glancing, and then I'm gone.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
