deepundergroundpoetry.com
winding road
Winding roads
The table, light catches a singular drop of
the blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light.
Asphalt is grey at night, not black, full of spilt ale it felt adventurous,
curled itself up and splashed into the landscape where roads had never
before dared to a thread.
How happy they were animals and tractors until they discovered
the road ended by a river,
too deep to cross in winters and too stony for sore hooves in summers.
This problem was overcome when someone found a nugget of gold
and the landscape was full of prospectors who survived, by eating
their mules slowly.
The table, light catches a singular drop of
the blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond,
no more than a road would do to a street light.
Asphalt is grey at night, not black, full of spilt ale it felt adventurous,
curled itself up and splashed into the landscape where roads had never
before dared to a thread.
How happy they were animals and tractors until they discovered
the road ended by a river,
too deep to cross in winters and too stony for sore hooves in summers.
This problem was overcome when someone found a nugget of gold
and the landscape was full of prospectors who survived, by eating
their mules slowly.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1
reading list entries 0
comments 1
reads 430
Commenting Preference:
The author is looking for friendly feedback.