Tract
the stage, the cage
lick your finger
turn the page
her touch is sharp
despite her age
and even now with water red
even now with nothing said
my dear, you’re all the rage.
the chair, the flare
dim the blinds and
kill the glare
I’m leaving now
I am, I swear
I hope you die full of regret
I hope you drown in your own sweat
with not a soul to care.
Copyright © Greg Easley | Year Posted 2006
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