Half Formed

This is my shrine to broken dreams,
ripped from the womb of happiness,
lifted, bleeding, half formed into the sunlight,
where they shriveled in uncertain tears.
Blood bathed my hands and,
my falsely shattered heart,
unearthing my life.
Freshly turned soil permeates,
air surrounded,
my soul impounded for who knows how long,
the price is to high to pay,
so I let it rot alone,
and choose to live, half formed.

Back To Main Page:
Back To Poetry Page: