Monday, 21 November 2016

Untitled (June 24, 2016)

Each passing second
My soul dies
A small death.

Words are replaced
By a flooded soulscape
Meters deep
In tears.

Internalized anger
Builds up
Consuming all.

A black hole
Only remains

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: Wrote this micro poem, on the TTC Rte #23 bus, heading towards the Main St subway station, for my Friday afternoon art program.

1 comment:

  1. Sad to feel the soul dying a small death. Hang in there, kiddo.


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