Nowt Under the Bed
No night iz,
under moons that drip ;
in too rotten boxes,
and scurrying bones
that trip blind rats;
the spilt wine red
reflects the centuries;
you rise, immortal again:
Yet the shadow dissolves at dawn .
Copyright © John Lusardi | 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. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment