still untitled.

as luck would have it
a cobblestone city
hundreds of lost souls
heading westward
dark street tipping point
home, or breathless
nothing, or north
that which you fear
will always find you
hidden within your mouth
falling from your tongue
fingertips on a scar
at 3:00 a.m.
if only held hostage
in a poem


© 4.18.2016 heather brager