Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2010
In the erie irony
of a cold, cold world
run by indifference itself
those who care the most
mopping after weak dripping toast
get burned by the absence
of a flame in their room
or a dog to lick their own sores
seek to keep fevers down
under down, under down, under down
Written by
uncannysoup
Please log in to view and add comments on poems