written by: TM DiSarro
Stripped of all the armaments that make us who we are, left with only flesh and bone and many secret scars, empty as a crystal vase is perched upon a shelf, hollow is the image there that represents myself.
Every flower there will one day wither, wilt, and die, as all the colors fade away no need to wonder why, wanting as you occupy the space which holds your pain, trapped while all the memories there are driving you insane.
Nothing is the comfort zone you wrap around your fears, empty as the promises that steal away the years, wishes rust like metal rings on clutching grasping hands, burns the skin like wicked sin and red-hot grains of sand.
Secret scars like speeding cars will crash into the present, scatter all defenses turning full moons into crescents, leave you bruised and broken as you crawl out of the wreckage, bandaged and bewildered as you try to hide the damage.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
From the collection: EVERY WICKED BIRD