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Pointat
by Johnny CrimsonWe breathe
so concise
as to never exhale on our own.
Own,
these words
knife-like
cookie-cut skin graph
while I wash you.
Wayward,
you're a starch
lime-blooded as neon waves of crimson
soak living room floor.
Can't,
exist in a dreamstate,
fever of conscious,
a filth stain on my mind.
Collect,
your earrings and open pearls
leave me be,
fever settles down.
Call in your sister...
05/20/2013
Posted on 05/20/2013
Copyright © 2024 Johnny Crimson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 05/20/13 at 01:49 PM splendid, this ode, any way you look at it or twist or turn, these tender words of yours can easily insinuate their burnishing brand in the soul. |
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