The sticky fingers
Covered by honey
Extracted from the home
Of the bees
They take everything they touch
On the scale of life
A grain of sand drops to the floor
And a bar of gold
Is lifted to the skies
And the thirst
The thirst for land
Money
Even life
Won't be quenched
Even if there was nothing left
YOU ARE READING
Tinfoil Constellations
PoetryTitle idea from my 2015 creative writing class. All work is mine unless stated otherwise. ©xAnthropophobiax 2016 All Rights Reserved
