The brass leaves fall tai chi from trees
Crooked skeleton sheds its skin on the street
The black veins of a hand froze in mid-reach
Trynna touch the sky but the roots run too deep
This that muted autumn trumpet to a fore-shade horizon
The riverbed a frame for the sunset inside it
I smoke away the poetry and rob it of its wildness
(c) 2015
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
The brass leaves fall tai chi from trees
Crooked skeleton sheds its skin on the street
The black veins of a hand froze in mid-reach
Trynna touch the sky but the roots run too deep
This that muted autumn trumpet to a fore-shade horizon
The riverbed a frame for the sunset inside it
I smoke away the poetry and rob it of its wildness
(c) 2015
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