The Level
medieval soil
never forgotten
by the hikers upon the mountain
there is a chance to hear a voice
coming from the back of your head
footsteps left on the muddy ground
imprinted by each stone of your flesh
harsh words
like a summer light
turned into unarmed reflections
naked like you
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.
