You enter earth's pulpit garish and proud, son of yesterday. Thinking my bedroom is a rostrum for your picnics. A naked torso that could be folded and put into a little brown suitcase to carry away. The charioteer is the paparazzo for a radiant face. When I turn around I look to see a piece of Heaven for open hands. As the years went by and faces turned to statues the ink on the paper dried and smoke stuck to the flowery wallpaper.
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Author:
Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 15th, 2021 12:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 38
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
At my age sometimes I do feel like a 'son of yesterday', but don't worry, I won't invade your bedroom! 🙂
he he
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