Dying Inside The Seed Poem by Mitta Xinindlu
Dying Inside The Seed
I see no point in dwelling in our thoughts.
I scare the flipping wings off your skin.
Even owls cannot stay awake on this night since we just fought.
You are clearly disoriented when you take your gin.
So, slide through this hole;
Come hide at the back of my grave.
It does not matter now, you're no longer whole.
You are a memory and saved.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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4/20/2024 10:15:45 AM # 1.0.0.1119
