Croak, creak
Sodden as heavy as a log under moss and maple leaves
Fixed in position without the feeling of sun
no sense of direction
orientation, I have none
I'm quite good at stumbling
and bumbling along
An alcoholic who fears not sickness
It's the kind of discomfort one comes to expect
It's stranger not to be bumbling
So,
Stumble on I will go
As stupid as I look
It's been moist and dark for so long
The world is all washed out
From the crisp sensation of light to come
YOU ARE READING
Chrysalis
PoetryA collection of poems that make you feel the worlds' magic a little more
