Is it dependant on the scenery that raises a personality? - 28 October 2005


Autumn cries.

Autumn winds sweep my drawn paths,
Gazing deep at the bare tree in front,
Strands of seasons, buried behind scarves,
The reindeer begins to hunt.

Autumn leaves collect beside the kerb,
Dusty skies wiped over the bright,
Tarmac darkens with the kill of herb,
Dew deficient; a weathered fight.

Columbus stretched and stuck far up,
The temperature drops to the blue,
Vague past-drawings of an acorn cup,
The pollen acts by opium: Strongly accrue.

(Laughing is a the trademark of soul -
what is frowning?)




Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 646 times
Written on 2005-10-28 at 10:30

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