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At the fork.
By Phalanx
Like skyfall,
Warm hands bathed in gamma grace
Turns my cheek to ask,
Am I just hearing my own heart, echoing?
I think we should partially dismember, removing hands
And minds from judgement.
We see hope with our strange teeth
Biting lips, thinking, "maybe?"
We both wear scales, we don't have to be warm to feel.
Why don't we just hold hands?
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Copyright 2015 Phalanx
Published on Thursday, February 19, 2015.
Filed under:
"Poetry"
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