“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, February 11, 2017
I, Here, Rollcall
How much can a pale blue
wheelbarrow or say, heavy duty dolly
hold before the wheels collapse,
or give in, and flatten out, under the
weight of cubic yards in
troposphere?
Yeah,
we should all fear
hellfire.
The torch we carry
is a tiny match
for life.
Picture this,
the earthen crust is fourteen miles
deep,
the sky limit-about 10 miles high,
so relatively, in proximity,
we have all we need in this space
of 24...
Have you mixed your matters?
Serious as feline excrement,
one big one
is all it takes
for the cardio to come dressed
as anxiety.
All hamsters on deck,
let the race begin.
Artwork by Alphonse Mucha (1911) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
White
Unopened mail on the counter, a meal half eaten sits on the table, fork frozen in position of the last bite. A world abandoned mid-sentence,...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...

No comments:
Post a Comment