Empty promises were scrawled across my palm
Lies echoed betwixt perfect, honeyed lips
She was the epitome of perfection
Storms danced in her eyes; a raging sea crashing endlessly against a starless night
Her lips
oh, how I could write sonnets just for those
Her hair cascaded in silken waves down her shoulder
and her mind
there should be a religion for that
Empty promises were scrawled across my palm
Lies echoed betwixt perfect, honeyed lips
Grief in EpiphanySandwich
- March 16, 2020, 12:47 a.m.
- |
- Public
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