My flesh grows tired.
Sounds seep through the walls
Chaining me to consciousness.
The flood seeps through the walls
To drown me in my sleep.
The floor breathes beneath my feet
And its heart bleeds in the corner
Where I dare not glance.
My flesh has betrayed me.
My mind is a surrealist.
I hear birds taking refuge
In my ceiling
Leaving their hollow bones in a pile.
If I spoke their language,
I would ask them to stop,
For I am not fond of
The sound of wind chimes.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
My flesh grows tired.
Sounds seep through the walls
Chaining me to consciousness.
The flood seeps through the walls
To drown me in my sleep.
The floor breathes beneath my feet
And its heart bleeds in the corner
Where I dare not glance.
My flesh has betrayed me.
My mind is a surrealist.
I hear birds taking refuge
In my ceiling
Leaving their hollow bones in a pile.
If I spoke their language,
I would ask them to stop,
For I am not fond of
The sound of wind chimes.
Request permission to use this poem