Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2013
Tepid times, as the grass,
Covered in little, tiny
Dew drops, sways in
The hot wind of
The orange summer sky
I run my red tinted fingers
On your sticky warm face
In the almost dead
Vegetation
I close my eyes
Feeling the heat coat me
As your hand
Slips from mine
For you were just a
*Mirage
August
Written by
August  27/Trans Male/The Secret Garden
(27/Trans Male/The Secret Garden)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems