Apr 19
Words of wither called back at me from that void.
That void where I threw letters and jumbles and themes.
Songs and poems crashed back into me as it threw them back.
Spat the words back in contempt, resentment,
But the patterns, the rhymes, the equations,
In which these words had been spun,
It was more meticulous than any architect, artist or author I had ever observed.
This void in the mirror;
Could take my carelessness and selfishness,
Weaving and working it into an art.
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Poetry For The Lost People
Poetry365 observations and comments about society, life and love throughout 2022. Come with me on my journey day by day, as I write what I've always wanted to say. There is no method or planning, just thoughts and perceptions about the way of the world. A...
