a bone-wrenching hollowness
sucks all coherency from my worlds,
blows through and over me in gravel
on monochrome knees, jags pushing
blood to my palms and fingernails, the color
gone from my heart, my face, cold;
like hers.

4 thoughts on “untitled

  1. I love this, I love all your stuff….
    Makes me wonder how I can call myself a poet..But then I remember, for every song, there is a voice.


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