My thoughts are like a wreath
of rising smoke,
an incessant patter
of the chattering rain.
Ascending slowly, they snare me
into their steely grip
choke my throat steady
with a hand of silk
until
I can feel, and breathe
no more.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
Faint rustle of the breeze
dead leaves, twigs blow down
Is it only I in the dark of the night
or do other souls too move about?
Hearken, attentive O comrade
here a shadow and there a glint
the beings that dwell in a land not far, slip out a subtle, gentle hint.
Who on this stormy night is back
door of a home long deserted swings,
what business unfinished they seek
whose laughter rings loud in the wind?
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 10:26 AM UTC