Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2019
We write prose in
the dead-cold Winter air,
where the old works we
cared for are frozen.

We buried their poets
in the dirt, along with
their bones, beneath
sleet headstones
of inscriptions meant
for the passerby.

Soon Spring’s rain shall
wash the prayers away, and
her warmth will deliver us
from poetry to life.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Alek Mielnikow
Written by
Alek Mielnikow
Please log in to view and add comments on poems