Black tales flow from darker ink.
Terrible, tall towers are traced by louring hands.
Stories revealing themselves like foxes beginning to slink,
Pouncing whilst their victims give no enduring reprimand.
I, the hunter, begin. 'Tis the truth I seek.
But as though I were flailing in quick sand,
Groping for solid land,
Phrases trap me not unlike stone does a sphinx.
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Comments6
Ah - the snare we as poets have to see and escape from - a great piece of appealing imagery with its wise message to writers all. Good read Ethan.
Thank you, Fay.
perfectly written Ethan x
Many thanks, my friend 🙂
Great imagery - an accomplished piece of work.
This means a lot, thank you Michael.
What a nice piece. Good job! Love your depth and metaphors.
This is confusing in a good way, nice use of language its amazing
Aw haha thank you so much. Much love <3
Great stuff. You are very skillful, how old are you anyway?
17, you?
Uh, the same actually.
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