Fragile, in want of freedom
Brittle bones break under the pressure,
blood spilt, crimson-dyed, raining down
these tears of memory.
Dearest departed, we speak of only you.
If frail you were in life, tied to the machine,
you don't want for pity.
Walk by yourself down hallways –
cold, empty, and maze-like. To get outside,
and taste the sun upon your lips.
Feel life upon your skin, radiating through fingertips.
Though your bones may break, you don't want to be forsaken.
Living in a box, electric lights inside, is enough to drive a fly mad.
Standing by the window, you want for freedom. Forget what it means to die!
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
PoetryPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
