Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2014
I write this word empty.
Squeezed dry of any meaning.
Parched and
                    
                        crumbling,
doused in my ink and yearning
for your reaction.

                                 My night
turned to your morning,
pressed letters split your skin.

You have been written dry;
I fear you no longer.

Good mourning.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
(Weymouth)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems