My insides smell like
Cinnamon
But taste
like
wilted
flower petals;
Dry,
bland,
Dead, gone,
Desaturated colours
in my pupils
I melt into a pile of ash in
The ground
With the rest of the infertile soil,
With the insects
With the lush green grass
and the birds
and their nests full of twigs
And chirps
And songs
And hums
And sounds
That echo
That resound
That stay
That fly
With the sky.
Buried with my name.
Until it turns to night,
Then the
moon
and
stars
come out
And
I
Hide
A
W
A
Y
.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 2:19 AM UTC
My insides smell like
Cinnamon
But taste
like
wilted
flower petals;
Dry,
bland,
Dead, gone,
Desaturated colours
in my pupils
I melt into a pile of ash in
The ground
With the rest of the infertile soil,
With the insects
With the lush green grass
and the birds
and their nests full of twigs
And chirps
And songs
And hums
And sounds
That echo
That resound
That stay
That fly
With the sky.
Buried with my name.
Until it turns to night,
Then the
moon
and
stars
come out
And
I
Hide
A
W
A
Y
.
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