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Louisiana MAG
December 29, 2012
It's all rot-wood.
Puke moss poured all down trunks
of grown oaks.
Here the trees drink too much,
Boughs split and twist downward,
Spiraling closer to their birthplace,
Pine lines receding further every day.
The wind itself sighs in a drunken stupor,
You can smell the ferment on its breath;
Decay.
© Anonymous
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This article has 1 comment.
HPRGSuperFan GOLD said...
on Jan. 2 2013 at 7:18 pm
Vivid descriptions, captivating vocabulary, amazing altogether. I wish you the best of luck with your family. Keep writing! :)