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#1.0

Poem by: MadameMacbeth

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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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#1.0

#1.0

by MadameMacbeth

Poem / Poetry

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