Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by loneland, Apr 22, 2014.

Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.
  1. loneland

    loneland Member

    Sitting in bed, I am actually floating.

    There are no surfaces, only colors.

    The sound of a truck going by

    is a grind, a rush in my head, spinning.

    Something is missing, hanging loose.

    Wild card.

    Something is present, but unseen,

    a breath, a trace.

    There's a silence

    that's a silence of coming nearer.

    I feel the feeling of

    becoming un-alone.

    This morning the sun carved

    red scars on the wall.

    When I turned my head to look,

    to see what was there,

    those scars were an ominous gate to someplace else.
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 22, 2014
  2. Concrete_Angel

    Concrete_Angel Forum Buddy

    Interesting poem, did you write that or is it from somebody else?
Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.