the stench of sorrow

By Mia

From dirt I rose into
the heat of the
burning flames at your bedside.

Your home—not lost
but on the run
no longer so scorned by our bright sun—
flies lower than a murder of crows 
near the lake where the gold-fish grow:
wanting and waning as gold-fish do, 
the odor of defeat smelling louder
than two cattle-men:

rank and defined...
with notes of loss,
where desperate breaths are never new.
 
M

Mia

VT

20 years old

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  • Poetry

    By Mia

    The obedience of leaving

    I left
    then was leaving 
    when I was told not to

    but you let so much of a river pass
    by--escaping your treacherous
    burning eyes

    so I bled down the bank
    to where the golden dew shone
    like fiery teardrops

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