Time will tell a splinter.
Although inside she thinks of me,
She chooses to scar herself because of it.
And so she ponders
Until that mourn of love
Dawns with the killing horizon again.
But each second seems trampled on.
Each minute seems clustered with a longing prosperity.
Each hour without hearing her breathe –
Sings an addiction,
And screams an endless migraine
Inside my head.
So perhaps time will tell for her –
It's eating me alive.
And I tore her out of my mind
With a fragile intuition to love her.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 1467 times
Written on 2006-05-03 at 22:59
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