Here, They Breathe

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I follow like the Widow's son,

                          
somber, whistling and far too young.

                          
Gutted, calling and full of lack,

                          
letting the noose tie my hair back.

                          
Nothing like the morning's breath,

                          
instead Winter kissing Death.

                          
And within my shaken grasp,

                          
it sings and beats so fast.

                          
Here within my desperate palm,

                          
a heart that has faced it's first true bomb.
Slip of the Tongue ~ A Collection of Poetryजहाँ कहानियाँ रहती हैं। अभी खोजें