Will it ever grow stale before I do?
Before I wither and erode
My heart
Like charcoal simmering golden black
A dried up fat river,
Dank and mossy tangle of roots
My soul, grey
My body crinkling like leaves
Will this passion for you ever subside
Because right now
It feels like it will remain stoic
For one thousand years
A city of stone
Inside my body
No comments:
Post a Comment