The letters were lost. Yet here I am contemplating the sins. Sins that I have never committed. Yet I see myself upon them, ever so often. Knitting and splitting each and every letter and empty spaces--Spaces that were never empty--binding them with time. Those were the ones whispering, from a distant time-space dichotomy.


Grim The flower grew within, the fumes were fornicated. Bastards grew on paper, spilt ink spread their legs to the core of chaos. Thus the evil brewed bombs. You don’t see a shadow on a dark, docile day. Only when it burns you can see your damned skin and the fire. The shadow of a truth turning all grey, sat by the yellow-mellow day!

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message