We now live in houses that are make believe,
Made of black silk, spun by black caterpillars.
A tiger guards the door and we cannot leave,
Afraid that, our friends are all hapless killers.
The high tide is going out tonight,
Let it expose the malignant sand,
The place where sorrow is in sight,
And none of us can lend a hand.
We now eat cold meals alone in the dark,
Our little world that was once golden is no more,
The once verdant forests will be bleak and stark,
And we are left wondering what it was all for.
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Author:
David Wakeling (
Offline) - Published: October 24th, 2024 01:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 36
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments3
That was good stuff. Both the poem and what ever you smoked before you wrote it. Full of wild images that fell out like a drunk from a phone booth. Lovely
Thank you for your enlightened comments.
Wow. This is awesome. Like by line loaded to effect in charmingly rhymed alternating couplets communicating a mouthful, the impact resonates beyond this page, so excellently rendered with superb imagery. Thank you so very much for sharing.
Thank you for you wonderful critique.Much appreciated
So very true foe many people David but it just should not be this way.
Andy
That's right. Thanks for commenting
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