Dead Poets
A poem about the cyclical nature of art, the line between honoring and stealing, and the desire to be original
This prose will always be derivative of something else
I'm always etching into someone else's stone
Laying my claim to famous tombs
Shrines of glory, trying to make the halo fade into my skin
It never sits quite right
About the Creator
Rowan Riley
I've been writing since I was very young and am trying to put myself out there by sharing some of my works, both new and old.
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A Dart at Dusk
Seconds ago, the sullen sun set on the two of us… my exuberant furry companion and me. A fresh breeze embraces us, delivering welcome relief from the day’s oppressive heat. His typical stumbling and staggering along — apace with a sloth — has turned into trip-trapping, high-stepping, almost skipping along.
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶3 days ago in Petlife
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