Silence
Seven.
Fourteen.
And then a few months after.
Confusion and anger and apathy filled this brain.
No way to prepare,
To save us from the insane.
The hole is dug deep,
But not deep enough.
Brave seems like an unknown term.
In my mind,
All that remains are thoughts of those wildflowers and cross
That sat upon your grave.
👁 1💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
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.
Log in to leave a comment.