Monday, 9 January 2012

3 little poems

1. grown
the flush faced boy,
finds rest bite in solitude,
only once he's grown,
once he has forgotten.

2. wash
the narrow wind of water,
draws a course, and of course,
we must all, eventually,
be washed out to sea.

3. murder
the kind crows feet,
belie, tender eyes,
without the heart for white lies,
without the blackness of crows wings.

No comments:

Post a Comment