A clump of bread is
suspended beneath
the faulty roots
of a bulbous tree.
The branches hang
loose and thick in
our pale pink sky.
The lines still
dance on this
sketch, the words
Breaking Bread
struggling to
dwell in sparse
sea bubbles.
I do not know
why the bread
is knotted with
veins and blem-
i-shes, or why
the flowing
roots are pun-
ctured by a
rose, a slice
of bread.
YOU ARE READING
Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.
