Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2024
Another coffee, for the grind.
We are but cogs, empty minded.
Bags of rotting flesh, empty hearted.
Trapped in routine, stuck in conformity,
our light dims, no fanfare, no applause,
just an echo of life's callous law.
A Poet
Written by
A Poet  The Moon
(The Moon)   
  144
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems