Crawling like a worm,
Searching desperately for dirt.
Without the blanket
Of it's warmth
...what am I?
The hunt for food,
Never quickly caught.
Consistently held back by what is hidden.
Tasteless-
...but what is taste?
Flat, grey plains
Forward and backwards
Encapsulated by green skies
Walking towards the hearth
...where am I?
Three posts mark my hole,
I wriggle back into my nest.
The earth floor is hard,
Sloppily covered in scraps.
I wait for the future.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Home
PoetryA connected or unconnected series of poems, in order or out of order. The audience is in charge of absolutes.
