![]() After My Last DrinkA Poem by Dalton
I want to tear you off
like the arms of my black jean jacket. Our love was not enough; I stitched your heart on my sleeve. In dead-sure whispers, I say: "this trouble is but a process"; seeing pictures past, I pray: "this struggle is such progress". While dancing to our tune, I grasp my well-torn brain. While crooning to the moon, I sing through cellophane. The fire-pit winter completes; woe, I crackle in the ashes. My room's warmth depletes; mold saturates my matches. Why did she re-sew our quivering quilt? She's seen my helpless eyes. A needle's simply incapable of guilt; a tailor threads demise. XX/9/2013 © 2016 DaltonFeatured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor
|