It’s raining out there, in the sodden hills of Georgia.
Men come and go in their tiny boxes,
faster than the thoughts they think.
I wonder if the stories they tell themselves,
As they curl up in a ball at night,
like wolves do in their dens in the dead of winter,
Cry out the Thanatopsish graveyards, where, if they’re lucky, sleep will come.
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Author:
Simple Tendencies (
Offline) - Published: August 11th, 2025 12:55
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Damaso
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Comments1
A puzzle that unravels line by line. Nicely done
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