Funny how she
waded
into every singled day
till the pinking sun did set
Carrying in her ruck
things she gave a fuck
about
or was too scared to leave
A dozen eggs’ shells
to spread before her feet
that one special dance
still left undanced
A folded list of faded names
hers and his and theirs
tattooed around her heart
unable to restart
These razored old blades
cavalcades
rusted red
where she bled








It’s a keeper, this one.
Tremendous work.
Cleverly penned, LDF. Fantastic read. Appreciate you.
Damian