Golden - Poem by Crystal Rosser
What becomes of a moony mind?
Entombed, in a hardened case —
Warmth kept from light —
Spoiling in a jar —
You, the coarse cat hairs on my sofa
And my love is the point of a thorn —
No mortal touch is immune —
I feel sick.
Where's my cup of tea?
Like blood runs through me
And I run through my blood —
Like a savage with a broken crutch —
I crawl into a pernicious pool —
Of afflicting recollections —
Bound by a wire that shakes —
Like a heartbeat
Heard between breaks —
And below the rippling water —
I see my golden wasteland.
Comments about Golden by Crystal Rosser
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.