Robert Ross · Nov 29, 2010
1 2 3

Set upon a mornin' rush
my fingers tired
eyebrows crushed

burrowed, borrowed
time to dash
time to crash,
to hell with cash...

I run. I run.
everlasting,
my copper top
a blast.

It's cold! You rapscallion!
artificial heat
beats my feet,
I slow, Yes, I slow...

my fingers tire
my eyes in tow...

http://www.robross.ca
 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment