I was just three
The last frills of snowing thoughts
Were budding across a
Banquet of woodworms
The fumes of a paralytic cigar
Ogled by a pair of irascible eyes
Stunned my olfactory empire
I was three
They were a bloated gloat
Before the death-train arrived
It was gun-powder music the blood-sucking
Throng danced to
These matadors from a primeval outback
I was only three
The trees never burned out in the raging wildfire
And the croc-crested creek
Never ceased its symphonic conundrum
About the Creator
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Comments (1)
Big brother of poetic realms, where wonders ignite, Embracing thoughts that traverse day and night. Amidst snowing frills and woodworms' banquet grand, Your verse unveils emotions like shifting sand. In this symphonic conundrum, I doff and stand, Mesmerized words, crafted by your hand.