Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2014
Night,
Our night.
We were supposed to win.
We were supposed to come as a tide,
Washing over all the nonbelievers,
                                           Our molecules mixed into a cauldron with
                          anyone else who has ever fathomed
        making a difference in an indifferent world.
We were supposed to win.
We were meshed together in a way
where I bought into this.
I bought a drug for this crippling disease.
                                                 Yet, I’ve known this to be cureless.
Cureless, as my affections for you.
         Cureless, as the afflicted home we live in.
****** by society, we sat in our lonely, empty space.
I couldn’t speak a sound; you were the one who had enough air to speak.
        We were supposed to win.
         Now, not so much.
            Now, I don’t remember it meaning as much to me as I had once thought.
                  The oxygen may have been from extracted my body, but, by god,
Losing has soul.
Bad
Written by
Bad  Ozarks
(Ozarks)   
259
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems