THESE TWO CLASPED HANDS

I know I will hold you in death
even with the quoins of rebirth.
Brother, stale as the air between
We died, yet you were buried as a twin.
If in the afterlife you find a hand
hold it till we become the sand.
Tell of these stories and hurt
wake of the undying sport.
To you I remember our tale
till the fate becomes what is in the mail.
I write to you from our grave
Of our healing, of the lies that shaved.
Here’s to the father of this sheet
listen to the next line hold your feet
In peace

Ruddapoet

Click Next To Continue Reading This Post

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


About us

Everything you’ll find in our literature are products of our thoughts, experiences and challenges. Search for a theme that interests you, read and tell us what you think about it.


CONTACT US

CALL US ANYTIME



Latest posts

May 16, 2023
February 12, 2023
February 12, 2023