lied to by heavy hands
grown rough in forests
brilliant and expecting
flowers, red and seizing
the belief of something
not yet broken
a body blooms and asks
of the deception
only once
like fire, final
a disease made of
will and a suffering
that stings when
it should steep
tomorrow I call
and speak of poets
grasping at birds
Jan 25, 2020
Jan 25, 2020 at 8:15 PM UTC
lied to by heavy hands
grown rough in forests
brilliant and expecting
flowers, red and seizing
the belief of something
not yet broken
a body blooms and asks
of the deception
only once
like fire, final
a disease made of
will and a suffering
that stings when
it should steep
tomorrow I call
and speak of poets
grasping at birds
