If I write,
let me wilt my eyes on burnt-out tears.
I will stay up through all the moonlights,
to know my erasable remarks are read.
You will whimper inside at my raw and shivering phrases,
and only dream I was kind enough to offer a fire--
though kind enough is just a villain's laughter,
in a heart so non-existent.
I will show a heart so iced over,
no one will dare chisel it away.
Let me invite you to just the surface,
what's underneath is putrid,
nothing more than Gotham and drooling flowers.
Share This Poem