Through Windows – 12

You told me 
Within these four walls 
I could count on you. 
This room, now empty of things 
We collected together.
It's time to move on: 
Promises don't last, 
Or some don't. 

Heart racing, 
Sirens passing by, 
Flood of memories -- 
Waters brewed in bitterness 
Traveling toward nowhere 
Our hearts could follow 
Or our minds take in. 
Injury 

Lasts after 
The thing in itself 
As a gift

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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