Shattered glass, amass.
Sharp edges.
In a broken home,
the shingles fall at will.
And I, you, my love,
I'll suffer the blue siding.
Stained and weathered,
burned and scarred;
the tired bodies strewn across the yard.
A broken home to poetry,
and poetry to lust,
and love lives in the memories,
to melodies,
to dust.
It's those eyes I'll never trust, but I do love to see them there
Chanting, don't open that door,
we've been there before,
we've muddied the floor.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
Shattered glass, amass.
Sharp edges.
In a broken home,
the shingles fall at will.
And I, you, my love,
I'll suffer the blue siding.
Stained and weathered,
burned and scarred;
the tired bodies strewn across the yard.
A broken home to poetry,
and poetry to lust,
and love lives in the memories,
to melodies,
to dust.
It's those eyes I'll never trust, but I do love to see them there
Chanting, don't open that door,
we've been there before,
we've muddied the floor.
Request permission to use this poem