The skies cloud over,
the smell of thunder taints the air,
and the rain begins to fall
from my eyes.
There's a book of poetry
in the lines of my hands,
that no one wants to read.
I've lived my life,
rooted in her darkness,
arms catatonic as a tree.
Unable to run or cry,
when her other prunes my flowers.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
The skies cloud over,
the smell of thunder taints the air,
and the rain begins to fall
from my eyes.
There's a book of poetry
in the lines of my hands,
that no one wants to read.
I've lived my life,
rooted in her darkness,
arms catatonic as a tree.
Unable to run or cry,
when her other prunes my flowers.
Request permission to use this poem