art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Well Old Son: Part Five
V Daisy-chained clouds gather in wine-stained morning skies. A placenta of rain sweeps over him. He's a milky tear in a red tissue. He's a tissued petal scattering in an emphysemic wind. He's a silent orchestra: rusted strings, perforated brass, disfigured percussion, withered woodwind. He's a blue echo haunting voiceless thought.
By Stevi-Lee Alver3 years ago in Poets
