A Rat's Tip ( Tar Pit )A Poem by Impossible
Each letter I've built with brick.
Mortar made of my night's lament. Every poem littered with soot and tattered footprints that skim. I've bellowed over the valley's forge; indeed on through to forever more. Still, the hours draw with no return. The phantom's vigil is all for naught when a crow roosts upon it's jump. I shall be done akin to the fallen king who so heavily bears his mangled crown, with quill in hand pecking feverishly away at the hourglass's quick sand. My final few words will be that of a book reveled by many yet thumbed by none, "I've finally rid myself from this contraption." © 2016 Impossible |
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Added on May 8, 2016 Last Updated on May 8, 2016 Author
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