It's roots run so deeply.
I feel it prickling at my spine,
stabbing my heart,
consumed is my time.
It's touch is so hot.
I feel it across my chest,
in my shaking fingertips,
an uninvited guest.
It's voice is so loud.
It fills my head,
makes my hair stand,
immersed in dread.
It has me bound tightly,
This Sorrow.
-
Author:
Aryana Rogers (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 13th, 2018 17:42
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: Lee Renard Caspian, Soman Ragavan
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