May 28
And old; it burns
A cold, and how thawing,
Aged down to the ground
Some pelting with furious
Assault wherein snow
Will not melt, where
Trees and their burned-
Like, and sounds and their
Stowed withfor sitting
Here withered; intimately
Burning up, wind still
Hits me. The morning,
Fresh, hell-grasped
See, eyes to the ground
Up, the wood gets old,
And old owes a right
To, in peace, burn alone
Falling, with my eyes, tight
A cold, and how thawing,
Aged down to the ground
Some pelting with furious
Assault wherein snow
Will not melt, where
Trees and their burned-
Like, and sounds and their
Stowed withfor sitting
Here withered; intimately
Burning up, wind still
Hits me. The morning,
Fresh, hell-grasped
See, eyes to the ground
Up, the wood gets old,
And old owes a right
To, in peace, burn alone
Falling, with my eyes, tight
from february 8, 2019
poem from the past a day #9
it's not a very impressive poem, but it's fun to read.
100% the side of my writing that is just word salad and i contended with that after i finished this poem and i decided that it's okay to just put words in weird sequences sometimes.
just put words in weird sequences, that's my secret.
poem from the past a day #9
it's not a very impressive poem, but it's fun to read.
100% the side of my writing that is just word salad and i contended with that after i finished this poem and i decided that it's okay to just put words in weird sequences sometimes.
just put words in weird sequences, that's my secret.
