Wetness from the Printed Foot
A Twisted Verse by Matthew Tonks
Forgiven in the webbed ending, the grip around my throat,
You learnt to give but never take, the promise that you wrote.
Something upside down remains, the world the wrong way round,
The images printed on the wall, still whisper without sound.
The sunlight fades on printed skin, the faces start to blur,
A whisper crawls inside my skull, too faint to know for sure.
The sign, the mark, the open wound, it beats beneath the skin,
The world a reel unspooling fast, and I am caught within.
You gave me the sign that was asked, the mark that broke apart,
I am the plaything, your thing that hides, the keeper of the dark.
I was the error cut from the light, beneath a dying sun,
While you sit within the driver’s seat, I rot in the coffin, undone.
💬 Did this one echo?
Tell me—before it forgets your name.
—
Written by Matthew Tonks
→ Read more twisted verses at mtonks.com
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