"writing poetry, starts in my soul, flows through my heart, up to my head, then it's out of my hands"
Sunday, 29 September 2013
The Wounded Heart
-The Wounded Heart-
The wounded heart, fingernails stroked upon the scars, and all the stars redolently fade into night, caught in the twilight of an ancient glare, the soulful, doleful shadows of the remnants of you there. Trust, tossed upon the frigid flame, frozen in the icy womb of your infinite eyes, the sullen echo of a sad refrain. Waiting for the bomb to drop again.