When I look at him all I see are echoes of my faded circus dreams,
dizzy smoke filled nights.
I feel it all growing,
growing towards the luminescence,
palms pressed against my chest:
I feel the thorns press through
as the roses grow in my lungs,
they tear at the tissue of my life,
and they bloom,
red and pink, yellow and white–
they bloom out to fill the cavern of my deflating lungs.
And I gasp…
blurred vision through which I can glimpse only him
as I crumple over
an echo of who I once was.
Let me know your thoughts on this poem in the comments below.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”