hippolytajust a kid
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
a poem about this cycle



The clouds are filled with light and we admire our tiny little bodies sunk into our grassy graves and there, our lover, never told:

consider the lilies, singing small songs of flowers from a dictionary you wrote as a girl; leaking, crumbling, cracking,


pavement, hot from afternoon, astounding our fingertips when we colour the sidewalks with blood from scraped knees and

sweet pastels, I told you I’d destroy this place, budge these boulders and save you from the dirt and

dust hogging your ribs, growing sprouts between white plastic forests to drown in the roots and the rusts,


all the world working away her bones and brains and body drinking up her gore and descent,

she crumpled and fell face first into all the worms and soil that leaks onto songs of flowers hidden pressed in dictionaries, with such emptiness that,

throat raised to the lights and eyes thick with greys and whites,

she cries and tries to sing again.

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hippolytajust a kid
a year agoReply
@bernardtwindwil omg thank you so much! that's so sweet!!!!!

bernardtwindwilGold CommaGranddad & story teller,
a year agoReply
Holy shit!!!! I loved this poem. It was technically masterful. The images your words brought to life were both surreal and sympathetic. This was on edge and pressed your craft as an indelibly brand onto your readers. Great poem!!!!!!!