Not A Book Poem

A Poem by Leslie Philibert

Rooks rise into the air

Like dust after a demolition.

An Autumn green with water

Pulls at me like an ignored child.

You are lost behind Summer,

Like spilled wine on a table

You run in chaos through linen.

It is now late, and you sleep in the ground.

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80 Views
Added on September 3, 2018
Last Updated on September 3, 2018

I`m not important. I just want to write a couple of good poems. Just read what I write. That`s enough. more..

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