Dimming lights leaving
Breathless asthma queens
Crawling carefully through cinnamon forestry.
Blue,
Like the hands of fate
Twisting knots of
“I’m sorry” and
“Maybe we can work this out.”
Questions are answers
Defining the cross hatched lines,
Too much grey space.
Too many red lines across
Peachy pearlescent escape.
Can you see her now?
Drowning in the fruitless struggle
Of who you wanted her to be.
Finders keepers,
As the lights raise on sunny afternoon dreams
All I can do is watch her leave.
Like
Share
About the Creator
Ghost G.
Poet with an obsessive love for studying mathematics and the processing power of the developing human mind.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.