With each mountain’s step, with feet of bare
Upon my wistful head, I carry my own fare.
Walking 15 miles a day, in rain, in shine.
The clothes, the floor I lay, water with wine.
I’m young I'm beautiful, I work as a slave,
From morn till night, I walk my own grave.
Beware I am of Zombie threats.
Alone in mountains, in the valley’s depth.
My cargo I will bring, the birds they will sing.
The bells they will ring, determination is the thing.
My labors although hard, give food and graceful eats.
Its worth it, as I travel far, as the day repeats.
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Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 23rd, 2025 07:09
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
It is the combination of rhyme, meter, flow and story that gets the fave this time. Nicely done
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