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The Wicked

As my voice tip toes aboard the broken branches to your heart,
You carry on sleeping in my soul.
A burden embedded in my wicked organs 
Amidst the burning coal.

A sweet caution on my swollen mind
As black flickers of your hands rush past my eyes
In a cold October of rain and lies

Of scarlet cheeks and plastic spiders
I lay in a web of haunt
and as she cackles on the street
the world would suddenly flaunt

as we run on the road to nowhere
and take our countless steps
hold my hand and look at me
as the wicked shall finally see.


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  1. Date: 11/19/2012 3:21:00 AM

    I love the way you've put this poem together, great words well said. Read;{>