in shadow you embrace your aches
fingers trailing a procession
down the easy of your thighs
lips once full now so transparent
robbed of all that pleasured;
from upon the wall the clock strikes
wayward hands of unrequited hours.
© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
Poetry served to you raw and unedited from the moment crafted;
all poetry is older work and chosen at random unless otherwise noted.
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