Categories
Poetry

They Know Not What They Do

Why,

when the road is so beautiful,

(dappled sun on white)

do these lashing tongues

slice my delicate sky, so?

I shall find a cave, as promised.

A dear and perfect home

to soothe.

And I shall cherish the broken,

never shall I fight, as they do.

They know not how their barbs sting.

Be silent and sure, my battered soul.

Silent and hopeful,

the slicing pain will end.

By brookecutler2

Liver of life, lover of everything. đź’•

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