Contort Bruise of Cloud
A fear contorts the boot in my mouth. Of the lucid reality that might come true. Lucid in dreams of medicated trespassing into the realms of the dire fever. I do it every day. Shivers of ice heat, I loop around in my own deep. Head in the clouds, where I thought I had a crown. I know I must come down. The hole I've dug with all I've undone is crumbling above. I still have my spade, but is it a blade or a way out? Cancel my mind, it's wrapped in jealous vile, cry for the words to say. I need to communicate what I fear. I am what I fear. When closest to my memories, to my ethos. I need to be true. Not hold onto each past bruise.
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.
