Idea reputation: -122.
Ivy creeps into my mortar, under my fingernails.
It's in my eyes, choking my doorway throat. I can't breathe.
Mold and mildew bloat my exoskeleton,
my slate skin falls of my bones
My red brick walls are crumbling dust
Returning to the clay from which they came
As my strength turns into rust
I creak a little pain.
Im rotting from the inside out, the outside in,
I was the prize fur coat that warmed you, now threadbare in the bin
submitted by R who wrote this about it:
It's made of some words.