Outside In
Old fellow
of the soft and brittle bones
there on the front porch
upon your creaking throne
What do you make of this?
Is it the honor of your age
that sustains you now?
Poets tell of wisdom,
gifted by the years,
but fickle as the breezes
that caress your brow,
that thought consoles a little while
and then
the shadowy ideas dance
and play, just far enough away
to touch, but not to hold
and what remains?
...to scratch another afternoon
of reverie
into a soil once fertile,
then grown hard and barren.
Oh yes,
there is this one last insight
somewhere, lurking ...
ah, but never mind.
It's almost suppertime
~
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
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
