6 of clubs laying faceup in the snow.
Beside
the home an oyster
once knew. Lost.
Desolate.
Alone. Fir trees bend shadows
from above twinkling lights from
in between the white walls
that hold us from moving.
Snow diamonds shine in the
preafternoon light
wear me on its finger,
the slave to the minority. Logos
change to suit 7 while the
70 times 7 live on in
quiet indifference to the birthright they
abandon.
3 comments:
I love this one. Don't know why, I just do. I love how it's abstract and you're playing with form. Very neat! :)
I love that it's abstract too. I wrote it on a bus, literally looking at a playing card in a snow pile!
Go figure! :-)
lol nice. It's weird how some people seem to see things entirely differently than others... to most, that card would have been litter on the ground, but to you it was more than that.
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