the rain shines down its ghostly form
attached with immovable lines
to the ever-present rectangles
that swim and turn in drafts
all the while
as the dead move the living.
and when the living grow tired
and begin to fade their last
they hold on to the things
unknowable to ask.
YOU ARE READING
The Dead
PoetryI was hyped up on caffeine (this usually makes me tired, wtf) and insomnia in general when I wrote part I. Part II I had written earlier, originally for English class (I had to put in Austaire, do you think I should keep it?) and decided to put it o...
