Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2012
There’s a glass of water on a dark wooden desk
I taste a little then spill the rest
I slept for an hour but awoke from the storm
There I coil to the window in my natural form
I touch the shade as the velvet of Earth, and
I count the steps to this point from my birth, and
There stand I, aware but detached, as
There could we, but our lives falsely clashed
Paul Rousseau
Written by
Paul Rousseau
572
   Anna Sandberg
Please log in to view and add comments on poems