Bones
broken on
bones-
twisting
my lovely
bones;
Dying blood roses
and living blood vines
slowly creeping
down crooked red spines...
Bones
broken on
crushed, white bones-
twisting
my lovely,
crooked spine;
Dragons bleed black
and ink washes like wine;
skeleton hands
slowly turn the time...
We all disappear
at the end of the line
with
bones
broken
on bones.
10.6.08
YOU ARE READING
RIP
PoetryTwisted. Fearful. Beating. Harmony: Dark imagery of an ex-psychopath written in poetry. Rest in Peace, my little straight jacket. Enjoy the reading, my friends!
