PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I stood beneath a tree,

cascades of gold rain

threading through the pale air.

I stitched my happiness together

with dead winter leaves

and dry pine needles.

I filled my body with straw

and smoked a cigarette

that tasted of chrysanthemums,

a miserable scent of wood

and the bark is peeling.

I stand rooted,

watching the world grow old,

clouds crumbling to ash,

the sweat of a thousand victories

fading like the dying sun.

My soul is cold.

The night brings warmth.