Dead Paper

There’s days
Where the words feel like makeup,
Simple adorations,
On a body
Long since passed.
Each poem, a corpse,
Each word, a brush stroke,
Until eventually
A graveyard has emerged
And we silently read
The profound headstones:
Eloquent, beautiful words
On yellowed, dead paper.

Published by: cynicalwordsmith

I am, by no means, a professional writer. I have no dreams of becoming such. I just enjoy writing in my very sparse free time, both poetry and short stories. If you enjoy any of my works in particular, feel free to tell me. I always enjoy the feedback.

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