Lo, lo, and behold
A man crafted of gold
Snowy white wings
Bear him aloft
Beyond reach
Hands outstretched
To the golden rays
They melt the snow
From wooden frames
And down he plummets
From the clouds
To the waves
Without a sound
Alas! Alas! He cannot fly
The wind cries out in terror
The sun continues to shimmer and shine
Upon the now empty, quiet blue sky
The stars mourn for the shining gold
Now dead beneath the water
The vast expanses of the deep
Have rendered him asunder.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Erinn's Collection of Poetry
PoesíaPoems that float around in my head that are lucky enough to be written down.
