If I could read the last line
i'd have a post
but i may be too intimidated by the level of greatness which i perceive precedes me
driving home, Springtime pores thick with pollen
rosebuds and thorns shoot from the edges of my eyelids as i grab my pen
and scribe as i drive
thoughts on old suntanned free city paper
progeny on paper
dragged up from the floor board
thorns sting and salty tears drop from my chin
to touch down on
jonquils blond fade
and dead butterfly wings
fallen from young lovers lips
float on smoke filled air with
cinders from Falls burning leaves
(i think that's what it says)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment