The last thing I heard was
Stage Four
and the unlikely results
of a goodbye;
for all intents and purposes,
I thought he was dead.
But I watched the figure
saunter onto
my grandmother's worn porch
with a sideways smile that said
his brain may be fried
by years of illegal substances,
and his lungs may have failed
after pumping smoke in and out,
but my grandfather cannot
get rid of his brother so easily.
YOU ARE READING
Once, We Lived | Poetry Collection Completed
PoetryA collection of poetry from the high-school years of an semi-angsty teen with too much time on her hands. This is an exploration of the different facets of life and the perceptions of a teen of the 2010s with a knack for words. Warning: contains con...
