Fires in snap bound to echo red brick church. Brass bell sits in wait of it's mono tone in flow. Air throws wash of sun horizon coloured trees. Ends filled midst boiled sap on tetered embered growth. Grey skin explodes to steal flight into air. Embers to charcoal three more logs one more chair.
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Posted: Aug 2010
About this poem:
Some time alone sittin at the fire. Very cool, oh apparently too close too lol. Cheers all.
Comments (14)
nice words bentlee..