Harness what it is to be a tree.
Candid spaces of mimosa seed pods vary in size; please abide.
Follow the trail of crumbs given by all.
The wicked fall to sanctity, believe the tales of old.
The sirens forbade a calling to thee.
Spoke tales of villages trapped by scarcity
filled with peasantry amid a storm of echoing cries filling the skies.
Men holiest of nothing, speakers of half-truths bear witness to not.
See me in my fullest divine garnished with lavish leaves,
silken roots fallen to you.
A plague of man.
YOU ARE READING
Dumping Grounds
PoetrySometimes when you are dumping your mind, poetry arises. In this anthology, travel with me to dreamy places or the dark corners of my mind, perhaps invoking the writer in you. I hope these pieces speak to you in some way as they have to me. Dumping...
