The cold words nipped at my skin,
leaving goosebumps and wounds in their wake
bundled in layers, I will bend,
cold chills tend to run up my spine,
provoking the thoughts that race through my mind,
they're chattering now, but I will not listen,
bones rattle and death is still,
I'm a mind of shattered free will.
YOU ARE READING
Tangents
PoetryIt's some kind of literary form. Quote me: k.t. Sometimes explaining something does not give it meaning, but leaves it without purpose.
