Like a "Good morning", even droplets dancing under my feet,
those chilling, velvety tears the size of ants tempting me,
and the morning fog that clothes my hooves
and leaves a fresh path for me into nothing.
What shall we do when the senses leave us in the even?
As the fear rips our clothes in mourning.
We cannot imagine the light leaving us
to deal with what we hide the day long.
Until the only sign of our existence is the
chills down our spines.
The undeniable morning holds for us a new chance-
the hope of a clean slate.
YOU ARE READING
Stream of Consciousness
PoetryCome join us you emancipators from reality, You who wouldn't die for anything in this world, Though we are no more than martyrs. We'll never care for you, but you'll gain so much. We all have something worth hearing, and We all have something to le...
