Cold and sour blood
of the covenant
gets spilled on shirts
as the dance floor hums
with the feet of
the people gathered
for a feast
Do you feel guilty
about keeping the dead butterflies
under the lid?
Storing the poor lifeless
for the pleasure of seeing patterns.
You stand aside
from the crowds rhythmic rituals;
a beat but no sense of rhythm
because she sits at home
looking at the moon
out of her window,
reminded of you.
No comments:
Post a Comment