"curren" poems
He does not remember paying for my love,
I have the half ripped down the middle
tear smeared receipt
in my hand
as we speak
Copy Right 2020
©PoeticPat
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
The boys fell,
fell,
fell far away
From the whimsical air where the ocean lay
Where the waves came up to swallow them
As the tree, tall as the empire state building
Swayed soft and steady
The wind slapped them as they walked
Slowing their pace
But nobody, no, nobody cared
And the boys, pale as paper
Watching as the moon glistened through cryptic clouds
And they moved against the wind
Slowly at first, then faster, faster
Until they collapse into
Wildflowers, dyed scarlet with blood
Dripping into a quickly flowing river
Pulling the boys along with the cold curren
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC