Dragged
through the mire with the desire
to end
classical music of the eighteenth
century plays along
accompanying along side my mind
nagging
voices that never tire
constant, several different ones
its five
its seven
its four
its blue
its black
its green its eight
its up
its east
its blue its eight its west its black
dragging
through the mire
the wind is chilling
the trees, dance, finger wrapped
breaking the suns rays
speckled fragments of which
touch my face
I think I will sleep in the woods
tonight.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
O, sweet insanity. This is very touching.
ReplyDelete