PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Maybe when the night
becomes a weeping willow,
you'll think of me
My voice is like soft hide,
not beaten yet, but waiting in a
box somewhere, with a eulogy
 

We died, on some clever evening
because, the world could not stop for us
But the ember glows, like a freak
in the mall
where bodies are so blended it is sickening.

I like a sore thumb,
baby

We ate our towns like sweet chocolate
and when we are done,
we will set fire to the landmarks that made us
That is the soul we carry, and nobody wants it
but I know, what your pale mouth could do,
in the night of weeping willows
We know it burns all the trees down,

we know, but we wont say it.