shadowsshudder

Like suckles they seethe, Like children they teethe, And like lovers; we leave.

There lie white roses in my garden They whisper to me They ask me to love them, but stick me With their thorns when I come too close There is a succulent fruit tree That remains a stump, just beyond me It exists in befores and afters Like a dying phoenix flutters And I am only sand A humble, not quite life I am only a parody of love A bed for wandering feet And I am merely here For reasons the salts refuse to tell I am a mockery of being But come, trot on me still

It has become   watching the clock      Etching the seconds into their minutes   It has become      taking moons         stealing them from their skies and from the stars      It has become         so neutral            The color was kidnapped, the tone is a tombstone.