A lingering sense of something more
A patio made of cold adobe floor
Built of the dirt and bones of yesteryear and nevermore.
Languishing acrid in an early twilight
Prolonging the slippery delay toward
The sweet caress of a wanting night.
A pour steeped in the ground
Brings a sharp wish for a sliced end;
The strength to break it found
By a paternal need to tend.
Labels: poem
1 Comments:
B
Why don'y you join a poetry group? a'la mypoetry.com, or some such group? You would be recieving a lot of poetry comments, and perhaps get more inspiration. I would hate to see your creativity stifled, especially considering the current enviroment... work isnt exactly the place for finding the muse.. :)
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