Junk Yard

INK AND QUILL

The kite string,
Tangled,
With a flicker,
The wind drew breath,
Opened her mouth to speak,
And was left, in stillness,
Hushed, in sobriety,
A window to the open skies,
And a canvas painted white,
My mind a junk yard,
Inhaling the garbage,
Toxicity, red eyes blind,
A skeletal frame, twenty plus one,
Talk, all you do is talk,
Talk is cheap,
Wrap your wiry hands around me,
Bring your cold lips on mine,
Warm them on my tongue,
Wasted, you are wasted,
You taste like regret,
I blame myself for your surrender, Lover,you won second prize, but here I am.

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