Small tendrils tethered to a stone,
Wriggling their way towards
The warm golden that gleams
On the dirt that surrounds.
Grazing every ounce of an atom
Around, and evades their touch.
While offshoots, thread-like,
With a sneer,
Clutch them, back in their place.
The pull only grows stronger
With each passing second,
Soft pleas that they implore
The gust to carry like letters
That not even dust heeds to.
While they squirm in desperation
For a trace of the lustrous drink
To defer that cool olive
From slowly fading to amber.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten
Poetry"Sometimes I wonder If this is how it's supposed to be Can I make a choice ? Or is it all meant to be?"...
