In The Mist
The whispering wind blows
eternal through the sky
of the the moon, stars and the sun
Time is ticking off
as my brain sends vast electrical signals
awaking my senses that have drifted
to the other world and back
Letting go of who had actually been my true love
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| Am I blocked from chatting? | 0 | 09/21/2009 |
| In The Mist | 0 | 09/04/2009 |
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