It was like sand that rippled to an evening tide,
Then dissolved into mist.
Its age accented like footprints on a beach
Footprints tracing a face's wrinkles
Highlighted by a sunset pen
For publication in the fields of Bunker Hill
But the knowledge of the fact of fiction
Had its curtain drawn towards the Occipital lobe.
Like the radar on a passenger jet,
Furrowed wrinkles jogged on by.
(c) 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment