The End of Broken Days

January 26, 2020

I slowly lower my nails

Into your voice

As it spins and fills

And floats towards its middle.

My finger and thumb at the lever,

Ready to finish the crackling,

A resistance to its end,

To the failure of future mournings.

No days to slip and break,

Where the black drains

Out of the night

Into a silent gesture

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.