I hard to think about the past;
it's so clear, yet so diminishing.
So, devouring.
So disregarded.
Like fire meets sand;
A terrible waste.
A conflict.
Filled with anger and aggression.
There is beauty within the process.
But also charred remains and boils.
And pink scars.
And death.
A limited breath;
but breathable.
It's easy.
The jump off.
YOU ARE READING
Silverfish
PoetryA compilation of written thoughts, poems, and short stories composed by myself
