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The morning heartbeats always flutter, as ships in the forest become bare and the restless dead still mutter. Where my dearest Robert still roams, bright smiles no longer reach his eyes; the empty side he used to lie, cries, for him to come back home. I am hollowed out, my confessions stutter as I draw in, this retreating air, and the night reaches deep into my hair never to remember what I love, what I utter In the burnt mornings my heart flutters and these escalating desires become bare I hear the lullaby that you still mutter like your fingers dig deep, singing into my hair... |
Author notes
I don't normally do rhyming poems.
This is an attempt at it.
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