The broom sweeps
broken glass
faded dreams
strewn about on the dirty floor
painted pictures blanketed like old furniture
in the attic of my mind
dusty cobwebs, stand abandoned
shriveled spiders
eight legs buckled towards the cracks in the nights watchful eye
the widow died
now who is left?
warm rain falls, like salty tears
left behind in the burned photograph
am I to blame?
"my friends are here"
-torn-
"I could live here my whole life"
-torn-
cracks and canyons
in wilted,shriveled
silly little dream...
 
Copyright © brokenbeauty, All Rights Reserved