Stark Poem by Charles Malcolm
Stark
Rating: ★4.0
Everything tastes of boiled spinach
without you.
Cash becomes dryer lint.
Staircases futile.
I'm not sure if that says more about you
or me,
but I find myself hoping
that your hell mirrors mine,
and that one day we might stand together
alone,
laughing at the tall shadows of our past
with mirrored grins
and tangled fingers.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: love
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4/26/2024 5:17:19 AM # 1.0.0.1119
