Wounds And Love Poem by Mitta Xinindlu
Wounds And Love
The black vines of love
hack the breathing lines on cove.
Our drunkard hearts await;
thirsty for loved arts a crate.
We drink like stupid.
We sink; dike cupid.
Love is foolish;
but bruising in love is goodish.
We love getting lost from loving.
If not, why keep ghosts when falling?
Wednesday, September 30, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: love and art
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5/6/2024 1:31:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
