A mind of thuds
And beats of stone
With battle grounds
Now fields of gray
Stretching forever
Producing lined pages
Begging for scribbles
Searching for sparks
Or any hiding colors
Among the wreckage
Of neither this or that


Missy Ricco said...

I am frequently here, that empty sound when Muse stops singing.

Debbie said...

that's a lovely photo! honestly i don't know what to say when i read your poems though. i don't know what they mean most of the time.