We loved

Like doves underneath

Mourning skies

Huddled as white

Turns brown

As if life itself

Was a lie

Buried in stories

Of what could

Have been.

 

We cried

Tears of heavy

Dark clouds

Grasping our hearts

In hope

Pieces don’t fall

Upon heated graves

As the end

Hurried and time

Took its course.

img_2020

Yes. This is a long poem. But when you don’t limit your thoughts when writing, words seem to just flow like an endless river. And you find yourself being set free. I feel….

Liberated.