Times uncertain in lust,
black, cold dancing dangerously,
unfathomable He:
within ominously prowls
rats wet and burning like darkness.
Piles wood; trees among them stand
could He, would He? They aren’t stolen.
Lost moments in free walking
and still standing, He is there.
Together wrapped how and
what is he, suffering human in
bondage. Cuffs criminal as
hands joining, insane and wicked
thoughts drop dew on feeding devils.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Poem-A-Day: Day 146
Meop
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.