These are the days when
nothing feels like a poem,
when biscuit crumbs
form a cloud in the bottom
of a teacup and you know
what the week will hold,
when april showers
mutate into bath time,
and the trees drip fat drops
that find their way to chill your skin.
When you hear bad news
from no news, and each second
leeches all your hope, one
vertebrae at a time
until at the base of your spine,
you submerge.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
These are the days when
nothing feels like a poem,
when biscuit crumbs
form a cloud in the bottom
of a teacup and you know
what the week will hold,
when april showers
mutate into bath time,
and the trees drip fat drops
that find their way to chill your skin.
When you hear bad news
from no news, and each second
leeches all your hope, one
vertebrae at a time
until at the base of your spine,
you submerge.
