Light spills like water, slow breath
fills the swamp, hushes the dark.
We move quiet, feet pressing ghosts.
The trees dip low, hold their secrets.
A spotlight cuts clean through silence,
spilling over rippled, glittering dirt.
Eyes float beneath the surface, golden.
We laugh soft—we are thieves tonight.
The frogs wait patient, quiet and still,
like they’ve done this before, years ago.
The water rises in slow, silver notes,
dying on the shoreline, kissing the reeds.
Our palms are heavy with water’s weight,
fingers brushing scales, slipping in time.
The bayou hums a hymn all its own,
and the moon just watches—it always does.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: February 24th, 2025 04:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, whats write for me
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Comments2
With the scene set so carefully it seems a trap to the reader waiting for it to spring. Beautiful wording here with vivid images painted in the heart of nature. Lovely
Thanks Soren always appreciate your support
Paints an erie scene. Would fit right into "Uncle Tom's Cabin" by Warrant.
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