To a Crooked Old Man

the past
dies slowly
sometimes

it clings on

its nails
buried deeply
in skin

desperate
to find a strangle
hold

through wind
and weather
it lives on

but in slow due time

it will die

starved for attention
it shrivels up
and sinks
into the waiting mud

there is no funeral
for the death of thoughts
that never should have lived

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2017

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Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. I like spaghettios.

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