Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 24
hey friend,

remember, when the wound
was more fresh
than the in-season blood-red
fruit wet on my flesh

it’s five fifty-two
and i’m here
where the sky’s blue
is premature
and the moon’s gone
too soon
stuck with jail cells
for brain cells

with and without you.
Written by
Please log in to view and add comments on poems