rusted into steel of his composure
are sores and warts glistening under a
mirror sun
futile breezes whispering on wounds he
inflicted
for others whom he claimed to heal
haunted by mortality’s ghosts he pleads
to dying gods of aims and bloodied swords
for a life worth memory among lasting
maggots
in love’s tombstones made of bones
-2.jpeg)
No comments:
Post a Comment