11/6/18
flood me in fisher's opals
under docks of swamped fish,
slicked and skinned to salmon
flesh, scales of dark fever pitch
pitch so black, as evening bough.
they slink and slip o'er
sylvan needles, sylvan fjords,
dainty tulip shimmering in folds,
furls, pigments of golden way.
oh won't you stay?
flashing flying flinging yourself
towards a brighter day.
NOTE: This poem was too weird and unfocused to give a title. But still I post it because I hold true to Hello, November.
--KingfisherBirdLady
YOU ARE READING
Hello, November
PoetryThis is a collection of my writings from November 2018. It's a continuation of "Poetry" and "Poetry and Writes", but will be much shorter. I'll try to write something each day of the month and post as I go--even if what I've written sucks. Who care...
