poetry

winter-noon solitude

it isn’t pride
my love–
this prison
assembled
of winter-noon solitude(s)
is simply blood-knuckle stone
each rock, round and firm
‘neath an arched hand’s
callous-skin caress
the dimming voices
at the perimeter
growing fainter
as evanescent
as a dream

Published by

Eric

I've come to write.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *