poetry & things

Unknown poet

It was as if they wrote only to set us free,

never thinking twice about the landing or flight,

plowing dirt fields, with scores of prose, in sorrow and delight.

In a room of sun, where seasons come

with snow and rain, and none will ever be the same,

long after the reading, and none will ever know the poet’s name

or why the words have opened wide

their buried hearts

to grieving.

Post navigation
Scroll to top