Insults are hollow like a rotten log
Sitting in a gully while basking in sunlight.
The man understands this hollow feeling
Is just a piece of him that has fallen
From the aging of day.
The man made of bramble and sticks
Has let his body fall in pieces to scatter
Across the forest floor.
Sadness is strung across the creek.
Anger is twisted against a stump.
Happiness is all that remains of him,
And it's small enough to fit in a puppy's mouth.
The puppy carries him,
And the man of sticks understands
That his body was made for others.
And this puppy is happy to feel it, too.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning To The End
PoesiaI've never been a poet, that much is certain, but I can tell you that it does get written. A lot. These are the collections of my poetry I've written, and some of them hit hard for me.
