Your bones are made from
hardened earth,
I took them from the ground.
I pulled your head from soft, wet clay
and dried it in the sun.
Your crumbling feet found all that was left,
sinkholes in the ground.
You stood too long in the heat of day
and tried to move too far.
Too fast than those feet would carry you,
your smiles won't last for long.
I dug into the earth and my fingernails
filled with dirt.
You're alive at least.
Your too brown teeth grow weeds
and when you smile
I see them,
withered.
Wildflowers from your lips.
Coffee Stains & Crumpled Paper -- A Writers Guild
A haven for writers of all kinds.
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