Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
May 2010
Like drunken wildfire
splashed about the walls
some crude beast that lumbers
recklessly through the camp
the years leave their mark
and there is little I can do
The one hope that we might have
as age thunders towards us
and the ghosts pile up
like so much cord wood
is that we might not sing the songs of our lives
alone.
Copyright Jan 3, 1999
Written by
Timothy Emil Birch
578
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems