PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I am a crime scene and He sees life in this field of putrid remains. Sifting though the evidence of my past. Through things long ago buried beneath the cold ground, things hoped to never rise and haunt. I do not wish my words to tear at his flesh or my empty eyes to break his bones. The storm inside my head is killing what life he has unearthed and I don’t know how to calm it. He wants sunshine and blooms but my storm is uprooting the flowers far quicker than he can submerge their roots in my frigid earth. I want to give him his field of sunflowers. To bury the remains from my self appointed slaughterhouse but I keep my running shoes next to the bed of my soul because I will flee before I allow my storm to engulf him.