The city rides are tossing around
Big oak leaves across the road
Half-past gone, the sun that sets
On these photographic, rustic doors
I am torn between writing and painting
Torn between the alleys, the shore
Huron river and the old-town lights
Across the city, I compose no more
For its done and set and ready to fall
Its half-time of my destined chore
And soon I‘ll pack up, and leave behind
A song of memories, this random lore.
-Al
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Author:
Alan R (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 12th, 2024 22:07
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: Qurrathul Ain
Offline)
Comments1
Painting or writing. Both creative outlets. I am pleased to find the poetry here. I like the ambience in this reflective poem. Nice work.
Thanks a lot Cassie, have a great day
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