crisp autumn air, whispers bear
hill crests only we know where leaves are so
amber and the sky is so golden.
Posted in response to the challenge PAST CONTESTS: Fall '23: Writing.
So
More by elise.writer
-
sunday nights
sunday nights are my own.
old music in the corners of my mind
pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems
two hundred and seventy-two
little golden lights, 4 walls
that mirror my soul.
-
pain of indifference
At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.
Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.
In the unpredicted wind, it sways
back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining
-
january to july
in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.
i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion
pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.