Poetry et al

And as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing, a local habitation and a name – William Shakespeare

Senses…

Little sparkles of dew had gathered at her feet
And a snails trail led her thoughts on
With her eyes in pursuit of what dawn meant to it.

Beneath the full moons glare
Not a howl; even a screech was to be heard
And then a sharp sting on her thigh; unwelcoming.

Nature’s bosom was heavy
Silence its load to carry
And gift to present

It’s nothing she thought; sleep on
Till the heavy steps she heard
Sleep had eluded her…

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This entry was posted on October 11, 2013 by in Life Poems and tagged , , .

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