Nov 05, 2008 12:51
I fell victim to the warring winters
My soul foolishly plucked from my body
and perched atop the bough of
a ripened pear tree
The bold faced moon bares no pity for me,
but trails near at my back as if
pulled by a string
Once a humble spark in a world on fire,
should my fate fall to an unwelcoming earth,
nestled in a low bed
Or should the smoke curl and dance to the heavens
where watery halos lay suspended
among stars
poetry,
low bed