Crime
I wanted to cure myself
of you
killing my past,
easily washing my hands
of the blood that flows
from the wounds
filled with idylls.
I burned the past
and threw its ashes
in the wind,
as your complex words.
I wanted to cure myself of you
walking upon time,
and any expectation
I still have—
my hands are grubby.
Copyright © Daniela Voicu | Year Posted 2013
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment