77
Lately tesselating thoughts
grin unnaturally
at mental gates wide open
to the mosaic of evil.
Is there ever a Requiem
that can sate the abyss
that craves a Requiem?
An Amazonian Gardener
for Death Valley,
their own self a Valley of Death?
Black coffee meltdown
walking down the street.
The 100-year-old bell chimes 11 times,
and I cross my fingers.
Her email was 77.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
