Falling from new heights
we befogged our brain matter
with plant matter.
"Look, the roots are rotting."
Spitting out toothpaste,
wafts of wintergreen and weeds.
Wading through the waiting;
a shallow, shifting consciousness.
You bubble below the marsh,
making faces at the frogs.
I rest in the elk's bedroom,
grass upholstered, flat and soft.
I trudge home, properly blistered,
my ankles and my palms.
Look, my roots are rotting,
and eventually, I'll fall.
-Poetry Party Ghost
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Poetry Party Ghost
PoetryNeed a break from the noise? The ultimate survival guide to being socially awkward is here. Read into the mind of the poetry party ghost, a fellow playing the fly-on-the-wall to an assortment of situations in the world. Hear them ramble about all yo...
