informal,
not infectious,
but rumaging through
the daytime.
eyepiece,
not yet black,
but stumbling through
the color.
my hill,
ever further,
but still i dream
to feel its' wing.
hickory,
still rising,
yet i canna' clear
the brush.
the sea,
not just wind,
for now i've been
with breathing sails.
the days,
bloom and sweat,
dare and wreck
no more.
a man,
child and strong,
building and broke
once began.
monologue,
spitting and wet,
without ones' voice
to nod.
old pals,
turning and false,
shows fear and runs
from me
mossy stones,
swords not drawn,
are the maker of
cold scalps,
withered hands,
nourisher of grey
and the great god of nothing
and forgeting
What did you think
Comments
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Honestly, Im not too sure what this is about. But that doesnt really matter, this is for you, not me. (And I really dont know what Im doing when I write.) I did still enjoy reading this, you are a good writer and had a good flow of words. Thanks for sharing with us!
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I like the way you wrote this,
Nourisher of grey , what an interesting depiction. This has inspired me.
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I like these lines
'my hill,
ever further,
but still i dream
to feel its' wing.'
Very interesting write.
I really enjoyed reading it.
Best wishes
Sonya
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