Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2016
An hour is as fleeting as
the angle of the morning sun,
as brief as any moment has
a kinship with the current one.

The fabric of the world with all
its artwork, every sun-dried streak,
refits the future with a small
reworking of a brush technique.
Written by
Robert E Moore
Please log in to view and add comments on poems