Digging in the pastures, I discover my heart of clay palpitating in its compressed state;
pulling it out from the weeds, I find that silt has taken root, grappling onto its fibers.
Black tar sticks between my fingers; the growth of its hardened muck eluding my understanding.
If I put it to the fire, will it wither away?
-
Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: June 24th, 2024 13:28
- Category: Letter
- Views: 14
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.