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the crickets fiddle out
their last let the dead prepare for more dead let the marrow feed the mice every frost- blanched leaf falls atop another leaf death stacked atop death even as stones are worn down down to sand to sea level. if you have lost a love, you will feel this, if you have buried hearts you will not be able to brush it off. don't say it doesn't matter, that blood isn't red, that you haven't wandered foolish, kissing factories, throwing stones at tombstones spilling your little cup of time. Comments are closed.
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Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
January 2020
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Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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