Walking down the road,
An unplanned hideaway with decisions yet made.
A dog outside in the late winter snow.
And it was cold.
This bag of mysteries pulled from my back,
Inside many of old company await.
Pages, a thousand long, and a pack of gum for the haul,
But it was cold.
Sitting on benches sat on riverside overlooks,
Geese honking to the flutter of pages.
Trees groaning to the soft whispers of icy wind,
So it was cold.
Legs pushing back home,
Thoughts twittering back and forth in tired halls,
Hands shuddering on a cold handle.
But, as it swung open, it could have been warm.
YOU ARE READING
My Brain Left To Rot
PoetryA book filled with poetry that I wrote in my free time. Read at your own brain cell loss. COPYRIGHT NOTICE All of these poems are the intellectual property of @IzzaBeast and are protected under copyright law. This collection is an original work wri...
