PinkA Poem by A.P.MooreThe stink of skin, The vessel you call home in, Its colour and distain, And the clogging of veins, All bony and thin. Transcend your frail form, Turn from the broken road. Turn, a silhouette of solitude and silence, In this journey forlorn. Try again, my head full of smoke Her body made of glass, That voice I dread, She kept me close at night, But I was sodden in the white wash. Lustrous burning black hole, This different god, This god is me, Disfigured hands tearing innocent flesh, Its tongue burning deeper, Mind at large, how far can it see, Desperate whispers deafen the deceitful. © 2013 A.P.Moore |
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2 Reviews Added on March 19, 2013 Last Updated on March 19, 2013 AuthorA.P.MooreLondon, Wimbledon, United KingdomAboutI've never had much interest in anything apart from writing and reading when it comes to academics. I study journalism at UCA, this has helped me find my narrative and has given me sufficient skills i.. more..Writing
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