deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Tortoise
Years turn to decades,
Thirteen to be exact.
Scars enclose my carcass,
Almost hollow.
The pale touch of the leaves,
The pain.
Sensitivity pings my nerves,
I just want to rest.
One step forward and another staggered,
It's almost the end for the tortoise.
Thirteen to be exact.
Scars enclose my carcass,
Almost hollow.
The pale touch of the leaves,
The pain.
Sensitivity pings my nerves,
I just want to rest.
One step forward and another staggered,
It's almost the end for the tortoise.
Published 29th Mar 2024
Author's Note
I've been really exhausted recently... this is just one way to vent it out. How do you feel about this poem? Any and all criticism is welcome.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
29th Mar 2024 9:46am
