Sadness and a cynical glaze
Defend against the creeping doom
The wriggling fingers of the faceless past
Pick at the scabs, scratch the scars
Left unhealed, left untended
Until the bloody words, the filthy deeds
Well to the surface
And pool in my dark eyes.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: July 26th, 2025 07:32
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments1
Powerful and raw with graphic images of metaphor pull the scab off the meaning and it bleeds through. Lovely
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