Sapped veins colored with penitence,
insides churning mad with frailty.
The thin of blood is thin of blood.
How do you intend to kill
these stagnant nights?
Only you could remember
how it all began: vestiges becoming
a shadow inhabiting, the restless
rising black against black walls.
Eyes drying white. The apparent
lack of signs, vital. Nights will die
engulfed in the body’s ailing.
It's been a while. I'm gonna read all of your poems here soon.
ReplyDeleteI've resigned and my last day will be next week. And I have something for you which I should've returned a long time ago. Take care!
The line cuts/indention you applied here really work. Which I could play around with the page like this.
ReplyDelete