A place where
Many sorrows bite
A lonely dawn
An endless night
The quietness in
A moment leaning
The torment in
Deep thought searing.
The idle breeze
That sweeps away
The corners of
Each room that stays
The melancholy in
The passing eyes
Of well known strangers
Lies despised.
Each greeting handshake
A welcoming kiss
That falls sweetly
Upon the lips
Of time itself
In a mixing bowl
The torture of
A broken soul.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Online) - Published: April 27th, 2026 01:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Online)
Comments2
Good write N. I never knew waiting for a bus drove you to this despair - pun intended on 'drove/drive'? lol.
I have nightmares about the no 7 coming and I miss it lol
The rhyme itself is wonderful but its connection with meter and metaphor gets the fave
most kind, thanking you much appreciated
You are most welcome Norman
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