Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2015
Over our head
creeps big time,
the only thing that is.

Freshly folded moment,
to alive to  die,

Witness  to  the  break
in the softer water's wave.

Now, back,  forced to see,
no  salve  for  the  blind.

Sometimes, oh to be blind.

One   is   eleven's   rhyme.
An older piece.
Irving MacPherson
Written by
Irving MacPherson  home
(home)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems