The Night is a Dark Horse
Blaring words without letters,
the piecing screams of silence,
her face a waterfall of tears,
anger reaching for its own throat,
looks punching through dry walls.
The roots of rage
pumping bile into dead buds...
just a bad dream, only a dream,
but why do I beat my chest,
and beg for absolution?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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