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2nd version of my 2010 poem: A Pot of Mental Thoughts and Fingernails

Contributed by tapesick on Sunday, 19th April 2015 @ 07:58:43 AM in AEST
Topic: mystical

____________________
When the blood no longer boils
The sounds of old worn moans with grown grass to the highest trees, and dirt so old nothing is left to dig
The color of my eyelids look only like TV snow
My cooking spoons and spikes and spigots have long now rusted and I do not remember father sun, only the cracks on his skin
My face can no longer age and my bones can no longer move. No, for I've been long dead and the years have forgotten me...
So I lay here, only to stare up at the old wood from trees I used to play on, and I will forever lay here but my soul lives with you...
Love, Artemus Young

By ~ Mick Howell

Copyright © tapesick ... [ 2015-04-19 07:58:43]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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