PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The brittle men all bathe 

In a silver cities street light

Count me in

Cause I'm already there

Walking amongst the illuminated

My dark parts are blasted clean

"What do you mean,'what do I mean'?" 

They say and raise the temperature

Of a room not quite on it's axis,

Battles will do partly fine 

And if they all try to ask us

We can reply in snorts and giggles

Until even we are in bloom,

The pistol resists the touch

As if I were to tape it up 

And throw it in my trunk

As if I were to bring it home 

Stash it in my basement locked up,

The stamen is a common thing

All strained in excess 

Biting it's thorns and leaves,

Roots do suit them 

We both might think 

While tearing a hole in the sky

Trying to find a place to hide

Or escape to

Or sober up