images (4)

clocks spin & scream

plastic storm hands

clap like death


on the horizon, beneath

god, spirals of copper fire

gears & clouds burn as one


time reverses, you appear

a faceless mirage

blackbird in a box


same as before


April is National Poetry Month. Lots of folks are writing a poem each day in celebration, but I’m not that productive. Even if you don’t write much, why not give poetry a spin? Turn the TV off, tell the kids to go outside and play, and jot a few words down. One word leads to two leads to eight leads to your inner-thoughts spilled out before you. Catharsis on the page. Create.


2 thoughts on “Entombed

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