Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2013
Every word's a path,
each sentence a tree
and all attached to a stump of a woman
thin at the base then growing in circles,
until age is defined by height,
her illness by weight.

How can the wood of trench walls
look so lucid, perspex branches
contorting into string in the wind,
knotting air into eddies keeping them
floating right there?
from the poetry website, coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight
Written by
Tim Knight  Cambridge
(Cambridge)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems