You were the poetry I wrote, my longing in every word to summon the shadow of your fading heart lost to that forever sleep of darkness that has hardened me and left me here in the most empty, loneliest parts within my pleading ghost to be healed of these eternal hurts, desperate to cure death…
This Is How The Poetry Bleeds
It is the haunting of the words, the disturbed silences of the aching thoughts like lost souls searching for “home” and I, their tortured guide offering up each and every time a vein to set the restlessness of our deaths free along with this half light of the living darkness in me that whispers through…
