I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
The bed is made for unmaking’s sake Dishes are washed to new messes make Crisp laundry beckons stains From routine, meaning drains
By D. J. Reddall3 years ago in Poets
Matter in motion Measured only by freezing Paradox performed
Cigarette sears snow Blanketing somnolent soil Dreaming of spring air
The river speaks blue Navy nouns and Venice verbs It demands justice
Sovereign stalagmite Heavier than villainy Gossiping with clouds
There is a strange sadness in a spent forest. It is a kind of forgetting that eats the means of recollection. Only humans can make a mistake like this, and fire is the right reminder. Taking until the giver cannot spell harvest is folly.
By D. J. Reddall3 years ago in Fiction
