Each morning,
the dim lights of the sky,
the steets lit up by only the flame of my lantern.
The stone padded ground, glistening with water,
the warm flames against the bricks,
what I aught to.
My path leads me down the hill,
down to the machines that till and mill,
the cattle still asleep,
like always, forever, the entire week.
And so as I walk and walk,
stopping only with a short talk.
i soon reach my goal,
a small house, at the edge of the world,
where nobody would visit,
only inquisite.
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Author:
atticus_made (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 2nd, 2026 03:21
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
I love the last line that finishes the poem with a totally different view. Yes indeed people are not only curious but judgmental and associate anyone different as odd wanting to get information to gossip about. Nicely written
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