Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2018
Throw your gold-plaited, gold-painted
copper saints into the sea—
more salt than water, the Dead Sea.
What is it, this Dead Sea? Why,
it's that place that unfaithful lovers go
in body bags.
Full of concrete blocks, that Dead Sea.
Who am I, to talk so free? Well,
I'm dead, you see.
My bones are in a bag at the bottom,
at the bed of the Dead Sea.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr
Written by
Hannah Marr  19/F/Canada
(19/F/Canada)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems