Stain glass windows shine the religious exploitation of the walls you build higher with each blink.
Breathe deeply, grasp onto the smoke of a burnt out flame I once called home.
I wonder.
Was I ever talking to you, was I ever inside, or was I window shopping with the devils advocate?
Your voice travels in years of your life Ive never had the pleasure to know and there is gratitude in that.
Under my fingernails was the love confession turned jaded with the games we played.
Skeletons of the past make our roots rotted. With proper care one can save themselves.
Snip out those fingerprints and blow them to the wind that threatens to storm.
Full bodied, I am the rain that will never hit the land known to us as home.

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byKnotJoy© 1 comments/ 177 views/ 0 favorites

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by Anonymous

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by visioneer08/09/18

Interesting imagery -- this poem made me slow down and think it through.

Welcome to Lit, and I hope you have more to writing to share.

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