Someone’s earring on the road,
maybe old or plated gold,
still the apple of the eyes
of ravens watching from the sky.

Like the words of someone’s song,
that I quote from time to time,
something of a raven’s penchant
for the shiny shells and chimes.

Not a moment to admire,
as the haste is catching up,
work the bones and every muscle,
like the man behind the bustle.

Lone Wolf1990 04:37, May 9, 2012 (UTC)

Forum_new.gif PostForums: Index > User Poetry > Blackbird's Apple

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