My grove is stilled in fallacy,
branches entangled
like faith-crushed antlers,
roots sipping in whisky-gush,
the truth betrayed
in rumor-hush.
I have walked the walk
in my own garden,
yet the fence had crumbled:
to timbers and rubble.
These battle-lines are vague,
my white-flag is flailing
in the wind:
but curse them,
they cannot halt
their axes from falling.
A contest entry
- peaches by Randomly Beautiful.
500 points, ended July 29, 2009, 20 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Criticism Is Very Much Welcomed -- I Am Here To Learn
Comments
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Clever piece this is. Thanks so much.
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