My mind reeks of dead plots
and unsung poetry,
unsettling imageries, weak symbolisms
and mediocre works of art,
which flicker and fade before my eyes
like a ball of light running thorough the woods,
observed from a bemused lens
before the final click.
But it escapes,
vowing never to return again.
I still hear those starved voices,
empty yet sharp
like Father's sandals on my bare brown back.
Even when I plead, it changes not.
For what is gone leaves a shadow,
a silhouette without a presence,
and I am left slamming my elastic palm
upon my chiseled forehead.
YOU ARE READING
Anxiety and Things that Shatter
Poetry"Anxiety, you are lightening and a thunder only I can hear. In my despair, you wear an intimidating smile like a glittering stretch mark on the skin of the horizon." Cover by @DeathsDarkSoul
