By Charles Robert Lindholm
He’s Always Searching For Me
In The Wee Hours
Of The Night
Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges
Beneath my eyelids
I am ugly
even in nakedness.
Calloused and vulnerable,
a raw replicate
of crooked lines
and potholes, filling
with the breath
of crusty love.
The night leaves a topsoil
of ecstasy to hide
time’s decaying wounds;
I am a plastic flower
on a wilted stem.
Don’t even say
the word
beauty.