Boy


Thy know love to be but a splinter,
sewn of baleful hands.
With each stitch sewn in thine own heart,
thy hemorrhage's further into nothing more,
than a boy of sick wood.

click, click

Wooden boy,
must thee animate amongst the lonely roads?
The road's lain of fire once before?
Road's left to seasons,
turned memorials?
{boy} If everything is to burn in the sun,
then it is in everything,
to be seen in the light.

click, click

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem