I am made of mountains
which do not merit their trek,
slumps pregnant with swamps
bubbling ‘round souring slop,
flatlands so parched they cough
as the pustules burst.
I am petals so withered
they perpetually sulk,
shunning the warmth
so to sigh in the soil.
I am blackened fruits
weighing down weary trees.
The flies do not flock to me.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
I am made of mountains
which do not merit their trek,
slumps pregnant with swamps
bubbling ‘round souring slop,
flatlands so parched they cough
as the pustules burst.
I am petals so withered
they perpetually sulk,
shunning the warmth
so to sigh in the soil.
I am blackened fruits
weighing down weary trees.
The flies do not flock to me.
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