The Boy Who Cried No

I am the rotting composition 

of all your dreams and nightmares,  the uninhibited wine cellar of Pinot Grigio cravings,  the back seats clouds of lustful innuendo,  and the gracious tendrils peaking beyond the carriage of your pipe dreams.  I am the deafening screams of your lover consumed,  the angry scars of a lost boy drowning. You will die in these memories, be tainted by my caressesand make songs of my touch. You will sing, cry wolf of these late nights and  no  one  will  believe  you. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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