Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2015
Colours.
The Arc is a contrast to
the stark, overcast sky.

There are,
two end and there
are two sides.

Meeting
means to
collide.

Box
emptied of vacation
memories, blossoms
of plastic, frozen faces.

Broad smiles, hid the
lies behind the lines
and teeth, bits of sand,
those once were hot,
Between the ugly toes,
grains now discarded,
But no more enjoyed, the
mind is blind to the litter.
                  what was toyed, with
blackmailed emotional *** of gold.

The Colour
has drained away,
rummaging in this, in the dark
is too damaging, with gritty fingers,
on delicate nerve tissue, softly,
please, mind the
Grey matter.
Ottar
Written by
Ottar  where you will find me
(where you will find me)   
441
   CapsLock
Please log in to view and add comments on poems