GOTTA TRAVEL IT THROUGH
Unsettling terrain, gotta travel it through,
acres of mud and dirty minds,
cold bare trees are rugged too,
crooked roads, the lonely kind.
Outcast shadows of mountains blue,
looking for some friendly finds.
Playing hide and peekaboo,
with careless kinds, muddy minds.
Crooked bare trees are all lined up,
throwing their ghostly fingers across the skies,
pointing and guiding on landscape map.
But it's all thunderstrikes and lies.
Scratching my eye with a finger, crooked and cold.
Punctuate it and bleed.
Gazing through the image, setting it on hold.
Staring at your need.
Poetry by Daybreaker
Read 480 times
Written on 2008-01-16 at 00:30
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Kathy Lockhart |
