Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2014
I'm sending out signals,
trench warfare's got me down.
Digging through this foxhole,
looking for believers.

There isn't much left for me now,
as the yellowed gas rolls in,
except to look at my flare, high and bright,
(your angel-tongue hair, blowing in the wind)
and hope that you will see it.
RMatheson
Written by
RMatheson  Beating tired bones
(Beating tired bones)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems