Rusted terrene.
A rusted lamp-lightHidden in the fetid cracks
and out of sight,
Aside from those who hunt it.
A desolate earth -
A whisk of pretense and dust,
Bewildering a curse
for the giving.
Foreboding flower,
The first that we regard,
but still living.
Perhaps my life
Is not so forsaken,
and not so lonely anymore.
Taking carefull steps
toward more barren land,
Swollen clouds,
and my impaired hands.
I cherish royal waters
to share my thoughts.
I cherish all those smiles,
I cant see anymore.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 920 times

Written on 2010-11-29 at 14:12
Tags Life 




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