#1.0

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Written on a whim.

 

The nights are the worst

slow

creeping

melancholy

The color of waterlogged silk and faded newspapers

Quiet aches

Screaming soul

I throw my hands up to the wave.

The tide rolls in

And I am

lost.

 


Submitted: December 27, 2011

© Copyright 2022 MadameMacbeth. All rights reserved.

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