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sbohlPoems
Brick walls tower above hindering sight. Not even tip-toes facilitate perspective. Her footprints lie outside the walls like fallen leaves Their forms unknown to her their descriptions insufficient. Saturated walls of distress hold attempted depictions of footprints engraved with hope for resemblance. Discerning individual prints is unfeasible She confronts this impossibility every day Some were initiated with her imagination Others embody a perfect resemblance Many drawn only from descriptions Overlapping and sharing marks. Dust amasses and ivy crawls Wrinkles point to her nose Sanity escaped long ago Her search will never cease. A question burrowed deep within. What is Truth?
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Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
White Fabric Eyes
Brick walls tower above hindering sight. Not even tip-toes facilitate perspective. Her footprints lie outside the walls like fallen leaves Their forms unknown to her their descriptions insufficient. Saturated walls of distress hold attempted depictions of footprints engraved with hope for resemblance. Discerning individual prints is unfeasible She confronts this impossibility every day Some were initiated with her imagination Others embody a perfect resemblance Many drawn only from descriptions Overlapping and sharing marks. Dust amasses and ivy crawls Wrinkles point to her nose Sanity escaped long ago Her search will never cease. A question burrowed deep within. What is Truth?
sbohl
Written by
sbohl
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
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