Pilgrim soul with a crooked grin
Earth All mossy and dark From it, we return to it The base of the root Water The gift from heaven Seeking the lowest places
By B. M. Wissell 3 years ago in Poets
Last night I dreamt of poppa's skull It was sitting on my desk Listening to the Red Army Choir And saying things in jest
Ripples casting out, from the centre of my life, becoming nothing.
I wake The soft glow around the curtains, daybreak - Hazy and drawing blank A few short moments of nothing before the nothing forsakes
By B. M. Wissell 4 years ago in Poets
