know who to trust


Then I fond love, it was a cacophony of sorts, hurled and stabbed
something,,, what, who cares.
Now is the dust of the flame, a wooden room, nothing but the floor,
and what little we can grab keeps us from spinning in the air,
and enduring the sickness of tomorrow.

Each embarrassment sands the bone down,
til all that’s left is the damp cold rain.
Nothing to say, nothing to hear,
chatter for the ages is plenty around.
However silence is quiet when the thunder and pounding start
but only to feather the mirk.
Family ain’t family for sure.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem