Saturday, June 12, 2010
Our Time
.
shoots thrown
for a season
off an ancient stock
we are an illusion
tendrils that weave the air
and take the briefest grip
to disappear
with no resolution
.
shoots thrown
for a season
off an ancient stock
we are an illusion
tendrils that weave the air
and take the briefest grip
to disappear
with no resolution
.
Labels: Poems