groaning of gears marks the
absence
of the smooth, clean life which
we desperately cling to.
marksmen and their arrows
hunt silently
in the hidden winter landscape
of thought
and miss. doorways of secrets
follow the leader
as the sweet black dog in
mists of fog and time.
time
and
music,
displaying the auroras for
what they really are.
rose petals dance in my inner
labyrinth and the wind sings!
watch the clocks think.
think.
think.
-
Author:
Shadowbox15 (
Offline) - Published: February 26th, 2018 12:46
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 55
- Users favorite of this poem: swyndell
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.