The Devil is patient.
The wind grows bored of the leaves.
You are loved.
Kick the dirt into the air,
cursing it for the clay and rib.
She reaches her hand out to you,
straining
you never reach.
Cast your stone
in the lottery.
bear the scars of your own transgressions.
pretty, but ultimately empty.
petty, but ultimately empty.
Loved?
I was born. I died. I lived.
could never stand still.
these memories hang from chains.
you and me? in time.
No comments:
Post a Comment