Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
4d
My body
is a locked room
but they keep
finding the key—

I wear silence
like a prayer—
they said nothing
but their hands
speak fluent ruin.

Anyone—
please—
how do you wash away
a language
etched in spit
and blood—

Other than with a knife—
Marc Morais
Written by
Marc Morais  55/M/Canada
(55/M/Canada)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems