deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Cost of Being
How the flowers
have met their ends,
one by one
they all fade
into a straggling infantry
of broken soldiers.
Their heads bowed
and arms laid limp,
their rusted weapons
slung over their slumped shoulders
and their worn feet,
shoeless and ragged.
Thistle down
and trestle whistle,
the long slow march
from stem to weathered seed
recommends a dour flake;
death rewards her loses
with a meadow
of her stolen smiles.
runningturtle87
have met their ends,
one by one
they all fade
into a straggling infantry
of broken soldiers.
Their heads bowed
and arms laid limp,
their rusted weapons
slung over their slumped shoulders
and their worn feet,
shoeless and ragged.
Thistle down
and trestle whistle,
the long slow march
from stem to weathered seed
recommends a dour flake;
death rewards her loses
with a meadow
of her stolen smiles.
runningturtle87
Published 22nd Jul 2012
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22nd Jul 2012 6:57pm
The first year, having no heat or bed, I slept in a hammock in a sleeping bag and took showers at the gym. This is about that 18 year odyssey, when all I had was the spring to push me forward. Thanks for reading....
22nd Jul 2012 9:02pm
22nd Jul 2012 9:41pm
Thank you for your kind words....trying to report from the front lines...