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The Voice of a Quill, Now Silent



I am but the mottled bark
of a tree once firmly rooted,
peeled from its stately trunk

and within my hollow carapace
echoes an inert drumbeat
that keeps the cadence for
a march of ornate trappings

soon and sooner still, one day
this crepuscular orphelin song
resonant in its languid longing
shall surge with the rising tide

the sound of its condescencion
as it strikes the earth's bosom
ascends to a now-listening sky.


 

 

 

 

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deathdeceaseddemisefarewellforgottenheritagelegacypassingpoet

◄ these morphed illusions

a feather called "macaroni" ►

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