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Jul 2018
Dead, it’s dead.
Crafted pale, rough paper,
And it’s dead.
A new born yet immobile,
A silent structure.

Dead, but it has a head.
Slightly curved, pinched cheeks,
But it’s dead.
Wide wings yet tiny bodice,
An art carrying Alice.

Dead, and it’s red.
****** winged, folded paper,
On all feathers it bled.
Imagination has it flying,
Leaving traces of men false hoping.
First official Poethree entry
Written by
     Moth, --- and ---
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