Hello Mother
©May 26th 2021, Olan L. Smith
The poet turns to ghostly realms, oft' it seems,
As he leafed through pages of haunts and screams,
A night where vivid torments sever fate
That swing from high, dripping blood upon his pate.
Haunted friends, haunted houses, and haunted flesh,
Vibrates the core of him who writes with blood afresh.
In scary places he walks the ways of heaving walls,
And he evokes his mom, her whispered calls,
"You slaughtered your sister, but I loved you to the end,
You came for me, my son, who plays the violin."
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
