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Mar 2020
I smell the marsh froth.
Cindery campfires saw off at woodheaps.
The scent struck off into April.
I wear my soles like black parades
Slipshod over the mind, and farscape
Reproachful.  Reproachless.
In awe of the covered expanse.
It is hard to believe how cold, or how joyous
Is the thin shuddering warp
Which is coerced, without taste
In the depraved, saddened nutshell.
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BRANDEN B BRANDEN
Written by
BRANDEN B BRANDEN  30/M
(30/M)   
77
 
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