Fickle Infernos

alcoholicpoet.com

A little bit of sad poetry about the combustion of choices. 


she idles. treading in the throat of time. waiting to drown. 

she listens. to the currents as they devour the islands that still remain. 

the moment swallows hard. and she wonders will it choke on her. 

but the truth is, she knows she's too small. 

their choices explode. a cacophony of touch. 

she wonders. whether the monster under her bed will find its way between her sheets. 

names are for the privileged. choices are for the fortunate. 

and she is neither of those things. 

she measures the distance between them.

 by the fire under her skin.


Filed under: Sad Poems December 2024