Dull red hues: my eyes project; its vision bizarre.
Begone! They scurry and look for clarity.
But the night has yet begun.
The sky turns black - whitish black.
Like pale white roots of a plant
uprooted - a naked, lifeless body.
Its remnants covered by a black funeral drape.
The world: in silence they speak,
in the shadows they consume
the lush meadows that sheep jump through.
Into the black abyss they fall
when they fall out of mind,
like pitiful leaps of fate into nothingness.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets
Poetry"Snippets" is a collection of what I deem to be the best of my early poetry. Often written late at night, I like to think of them as snippets of my phenomenological experience at certain points in life, a memory of thought out of time that I can rea...
