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T R S
Poems
Dec 2020
Get it off of the fire
I brushed the soles of my boot against the icy grain of frozen dirt.
I touched the crusty, crystal pane of white glass stain with watermarks and fingerprints.
I tried to abstain from feeling cold, because of how old it feels.
Being old can steal
bold feelings
holding on to the heels
of gold leaf
peeling off of sinter cinnabar shelves
checking off sinister forces
pieced apart by well ministered contorted purposes
Such forces on bring remorseful endorsements and attackments
and shunted, splintered, fragmented tactics.
Written by
T R S
29/M
(29/M)
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