Little girl, I know your dad spits homophobia off his tongue like a wildfire burning and when he found your love letter with her name signed across it he cried and you cried and he told you he didn’t love you anymore, that God couldn’t love you anymore.
But you don’t understand why you feel more comfortable showering in the light shinning through the stain glass window in gods house than you feel singing next to your parents on Sunday mornings.
Category: Dark
THROUGH THE WHISPERS OF A DREAM, Poetry by Stephen Lodge
Haunted shores, soft winds whisper, songs played upon a storm,
A ghost hidden in the fog, this wintry eve, these snow-filled skies,
Beauty sleeps fitfully as wolves howl, they are baying at the moon.
Strangled by some unnamed fears, drowning in a pool of tears,
WILDsound Festival 