Grey is the wave of petrichor
After a long awaited storm.
Grey is the scent of dead skin
On a linoleum floor.
The feel of a pillow
At the end of the week.
The feeling of a knife
When you're finally too weak.
Stale bread on the tongue
First food eaten all month.
Mocha rushing down a dry throat
As you sit alone at lunch.
A dead phone,
A white noise,
An old book,
A failing poise.
Grey is pain,
Grey is darkness,
Grey is fear,
Grey is my constant.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Poetry of Dancing Fingers
PoetryWords are like a drug to me. I write them down, and while I'm writing, nothing matters but the words. This is what happens when I write poetry. Enjoy.
