The rotten apple, that I may be.
The bronze coin in your pot of gold;
silver hair in your jet black locks.
Scream it out, wound me more.
Leave me with scars to shield against your words.
If you can't withstand the downpour of my soul,
don't bother asking for a glimpse of my rainbow.
Walk away, run, take cover.
For I care not of you getting sick from my rain,
nor of your coat wet, drenching.
***
YOU ARE READING
Moonlit
PoetryThese are thoughts born under the moon's glow; when sheep has run out, and sleep's a child playing hide and seek with the mind. Some moonlit verses from a pillow-hugging girl. *PTY | 20 [03.08.17]
