Little grains fall through my fingers tips The ground is hard, there won’t be a harvest. There is rust on the till. ©Arwen LeQuieu 2013
Categories
Category: Poetry
Categories
Proverbs 17:1
The walls bleed in this house of strife The roof sages and weeps They try to medicate my misery The feast they give me fills the stomach But the hearts left empty Wallpaper to the wound Try to hide it away You can’t pretend peace Thin disguises are easily seen through My paper mask […]