Short Bogs Poems

Bogs Is Truly Awful

Bogs Is Truly Awful !

Cold like old man bony 
the wind whooshes,
through impudent rushes
empty, stony, hungry 
It's special beauty 
melancholic, 
making wretched poetry 
The night skys velvet 
torn to shreads
you there 
stumbling woefully 
Your two pale feet 
turning brown, brown
as Sunday gravy
And now you come to 
understand
Bogs ain't for man,
the sad or even crazy, 
bogs is best appreciated
(no matter what 
you're told)
by poets
and the lonely