Being tossed in the alleyway,
staggering on cobble stones
and dirty walls that hover over me
as overripe apple trees,
while the bulls are massed
and speed toward me, a beaten man
with no spirit, grains of soul,
but I find the crevices.
I hide.
You cannot keep score.
Depression, Failure, Fear, Isolation, Poems, Poetry, Resistance
This entry was posted on March 2, 2011, 8:57 pm and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
| Blog: |
| Stillfugue |
Topics: |
| Fiction, Poetry, Essays |
stillfugue