Sorrow

is the winter of the mind
that plucks you to a sparse
rattle of twigs of senses,

dormant, not dead, waiting
through the hard hitting period,
your sap still rioting

flowers of joy.




Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
Read 108 times
Written on 2021-07-22 at 08:49

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Steven Riddle
Ditto on Thomasís note below and wow! what a great reading experience. Thank you for this lovely poem.
2021-07-22



"plucks you to a sparse/ rattle of twigs"

!!!

excellent work
2021-07-22