By Arcassin Burnham
we could talk,
and we'd conversate,
a beautiful disaster struck,
in the words we write to each other,
and with each passing hour,
we collied with one another,
long hair that will be engraved forever,
as something as lovely as that,
we all can not stand the weather,
or can't you stand the rain,
don't you feel the love and pain,
when dreads swing.
poetry mafia