By Nabs
The well of words
Deep down in this breathing heart
Are drying and cracking before they reach,
This sinning fingertips.
These words
Taste dry, musty. Parching throats.
Crackled in the air
Louder than thunder and your screams.
As the spinning wheel
Stop.
Stopping forever.
Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel.
Embroideries, tapestries
weaved from the threads of life.
Unbound, unraveled
Marveled in the way they are being broken down.
Set fire to us,
And you'll see.
How prettily we all would burn
Inside this tomb, we called home.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
By Nabs
The well of words
Deep down in this breathing heart
Are drying and cracking before they reach,
This sinning fingertips.
These words
Taste dry, musty. Parching throats.
Crackled in the air
Louder than thunder and your screams.
As the spinning wheel
Stop.
Stopping forever.
Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel.
Embroideries, tapestries
weaved from the threads of life.
Unbound, unraveled
Marveled in the way they are being broken down.
Set fire to us,
And you'll see.
How prettily we all would burn
Inside this tomb, we called home.
On my writers block and my art block.
Ugh
