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Author: Angeles
Elite Ratio:    3.87 - 5 /13 /19
Words: 103
Class/Type: Poetry /Nature
Total Views: 1559
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 650



Not the air I'm sleeping under, aloof
A weakening ray of light upon the lawn;
No fleck of paint on the ledge
On the wind-swept road to Old Bawn
Not a deepening grimace in the dirt
Like stones scrumming their mute erection
The beaten up walls of the owner
A written magician conjuring rooms
Like every thinking skull that's made of clay
Picking his brain as lips begin to murmur
That insects know the rote of your decay
No, the slow blend of one day to the next
Like soup, their silent language as time’s passing
Through the house is

Submitted on 2016-08-17 23:36:36     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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eat some poop
but traitors to art took
all of my gobbledygook.

Thanks for posting the piece. Favorite line:
On the wind-swept road to Old Bawn

I don't know, but certain places have these lovely names that strike an image or impression to me, as if the name itself has some magical power of sorts that transport you there upon reading or saying the word.

| Posted on 2016-09-17 00:00:00 | by Pietro | [ Reply to This ]
  Torn? It felt like maybe that could be the last word.
| Posted on 2016-08-18 00:00:00 | by Chelebel | [ Reply to This ]

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