To each is poison,
a troubled mind inside another's head, aggrandizes a small world.
an unwanted joy in feeling no more, thwarts a nearby ponderer.
he whom is not where; wistfully searches to revive a hope he once killed, walks in circles leading to his home of nowhere,
the air is briskly warm, as the gobs of voices blather sage,
such familiar chaos, hazing into calm,
misery loves needing not company, for the powerless reverberate in non-existence.
to each is their own poison,
unaffected heartedly,
wholely in sick love,
living for despair.
-
Author:
Zapatron (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 2nd, 2020 05:26
- Comment from author about the poem: This is not supposed to make sense.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 29
Offline)
Comments1
Yep, makes no sense to me - clear as mud! So an excellent poem. heehee.
Happy you like Orch.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.