Tiny Deaths
you rip the clouds
from the sky itself....
head swaying side to side,
eyes lost in the museum
of feelings too long denied.
babbling odes to the gods,
breathing breath stolen
from a primeval forest....
naming the color
beneath shadows,
your fingers buried
in my hair!
tiny deaths....
postcards written in flesh!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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