Movement of Time
I have come to hate the walls that keep me warm. They are filled with faces,
clocks, and trees that have become foreign. Almost a false image to an unbeknownst world. As the steady hand traces the marks of space and time, we are left with wrinkles and wisdom. The stretch for eternal rest brings peace.
Copyright © Lindsey Slaton | Year Posted 2021
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment