For me, I don't know. For me, I have doubts. I am in blindness, but for sad visions of that old love of mine. When it comes to these sightless eyes, I touch my spirit soul. I stare. I cry meekly to a lonesomeness that is forever mine.
We'll meet again. Me and a poem. A prisoner of despair and want, I'll release its chains and welcome it in rhyme and prose to a new home.
I got friends of mine. They walk through a valley of whiskey. Oh my, they fall out of their minds. The whiskey does that, and it worries me. But they're friends, and when they fall I kick the bottle aside and carry what's unsteady away.
Poetry Pantry #367
7 hours ago