One Ants Lost Roon
J
James McLain
0
Altın Yaprak
It's the nights heat,
no wind, brushes my face,
dark is this path, to feel with one toe,
as it brushes back and forth.
Pace is awkward,
slow as the exoskeletons
of many ants lost in, sheets of time, the
many of the once,
are freed to feed the wells
uncertain past, as the few
that are left, carry that which it is, sight less, deaf
always helpless, back into it's void,
to bath in an ocean of ink.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş