Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
You wouldn't know it if it was
clinging as your skin

You keep it buried under piles
of situational sin

Your tongue clamps down
refusing to let the words come free

Your dubious look somehow fits
that is all telling now to me

Listen to the words you let stumble
from the corners of your mouth

They codify your existence like the
hot dry winds coming from the south

You're afraid to give up what little
faith you hide away in fears

Then you are caught looking back
on the mystery of the years

— The End —