Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2018
Trampling through their city paths,
Hunting ground, mean street.
They perch aloft towers of oak;
Dripping with prestige vine, wrapped
With silk leaves, soft to touch
And hard to climb.

The Sun sets over the seven lakes
Of spring kissed, freshly mown
Fields of scorn blessed by
Solitudal and beady eyes.
Gates keeping out the world that
Wishes them harm.

They sit so high peering down,
At our destitution, our self-prohetised Might!
And think:
“Pfft you all wish you could fly
Written by
RJP  19/M/Wales
         Erian, imperfectstranger, Fawn, Ciel Noir, Willow SR and 10 others
Please log in to view and add comments on poems