bores my pen
As they seem
children's things
The trail
Hidden in the
Overgrowth
Calls my words
Even form
Holding to shape
Seems to clothe me
From naked
Expression
Poetic drift
I cast away
So my bearings
Lost
And the solidity
Of fortitude
Lay with form
Atop my clothes
On shores I
Left
I call an ode
To the mist
For even horizons
Distract in me
And then
thought was risen
From that silent
Abyss
'Twas the feather
In truth
The cracked cast
Within
The outlet of
Unbridled word
mF
(C) MarkFlood2014
No comments:
Post a Comment