Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Sep 2016 Timothy H
niamh
A skeleton key
opening a golden door
to a room filled with lead.
Smiles on hosts
with rotting teeth,
tongues of poison.
Garments of silk,
moth ridden,
falling apart.
A garden of roses
weeds slowly choking;
perfume of decay.
I walk
this crumbling earth
and will sleep
with no lies.
Next page