SEVENTY-THREE
wither away like autumn flowers

I know your heart does not swell
when I tiptoe through the shadows.
I know your skin does not set fire onto itself
at the very thought of me in your cranium.

But me, I climb mountains for you,
cross rapids for the thrill.
Dance on broken legs for your entertainment.
All for your smile, twisted and proud.
Anything for the damned you cause.

I breathe for you, you crush me.
Wait on arching bone and drooling lips
for you to speak,
but your mouth mumbles
Sometimes, I wonder if you are
even real.

― I wither at the distance between you and I.

  

  Do you prefer modern poetry or classic poetry?  
𒐀 I enjoy both, I think both can be very beautiful in their own ways, but I definitely read more modern poetry on a daily basis. I also relate more to modern poetry.

May