Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2021
can you sell me
the same lines? They sound
like music as you say
them. But the music stops,
as I play them back to you.

How many times
can I weep
over a cold, hard stone
I thought once a
pillow? But I lay my head on
a heaving billow.

How many times
can I say you'll turnaround? Only to
the stillness of dead air and the weight
of a fiery glare.
sandra wyllie
Written by
sandra wyllie  56/F
(56/F)   
89
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems