These walls,
hold their secrets.
These walls,
hold their breath as so they may hear.
Anemic, they are brittle.
This hollow shell acting as my guard.
I can't see beyond my own blindness,
these tattered and broken walls.
Yellowing paper and chipped paint
hug the floor cheerfully.
Aged like cheap wine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment