At the desk
Buried deep
Where silence roams
With cobwebbed feet
The settled dust
Dead eyes stare
Downward to paper
Ink to spare.
Locked hand holds
A scratching quill
First paragraph
Meant to chill
The reader caught
In minds eye
Within this chamber
Poetry to sigh.
Six foot above
The cold ground feels
A thousand verses
Death it seals
As below
The words are scrawled
From nib to paper
In repeated call.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: September 27th, 2026 01:49
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 40
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments5
Good write N. Ahh, a description of the deteriorating bus shelter which sees no buses day nor night. lol.
derelict lol
As above so below comes to mind as do muses and their demise at times. I loved the image of cobwebbed feet that says so much in two words. A fave
thanking you as always much appreciated my friend
My pleasure Norman
I see it as being to write as if already buried, very haunting, the desk being the tomb, a buried act and process.
spot on my friend, thanks and appreciation
Excellent.
most kind, much appreciated and thanks
Norman, this one pulled me right into its darkness. There is something deliciously eerie about it. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
most kind my friend, thanks and appreciation as always
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