Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2018
For He who's hands are Gods
Drifts wearily
amungst the drugs of men
Crouching the trash heaps
Blending life with death
He does not hope nor linger
To he, time is the wind,
And is of no consequence
Its length,
or your breath
Perfection is not being the best of something, its about the true balance
Within all things.
John Michael Biely
Written by
John Michael Biely  M/phoenix
(M/phoenix)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems