Heaving up the trashed and torn roots
right here next to the old gallows pole hill

Dig inside my soil.

Every glance is taken like a last solidified picture:

Released with the dew-drops in a morning haze.

Autumnís shrouded leaves flicker.

(Daylight in its rising counts itself as old annual rings
finding me in the uncertain emptied; filled with real need.)

Time continues.

To willful use for the eye
meets the entrance by the edge of the woods
where soaking-wet leave-mounds glimmer

from the same dawn to dawn enclosed

in the greyed trees, the bluish skies
watched and awaited; Time continues.

(Juniper bushes, which stood on the slopes
treads on the longed for forest grounds
up the duskily pine-needle filled paths.)

Feel the presence.

Harshly appears the cold ways
denying cloud covered days,
which felted all my time here.

The wind hisses bodefully.

(Out-witted as an autumn-adorned branch
taken down with the now icing night-wind.)

Hear me clearly; Time continues.

Poetry by 1 SIGFRIDSSON The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 98 times
Written on 2023-09-17 at 19:47

Tags Hanged  Time  Wind 

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