by Mike Pollock
Darkness fell across slumbered wood,
Its nearness calling when it never should.
A blanket fog with thickness rolls
Over brush and tree its evil flows.
Eyes as bright as burning stars
Alerting creatures near and far.
Dead hands claw from dirt and mud
Beatless hearts, a thirst for blood.
A wail creeps from the broken maws
A thousand corpses from earth they crawl
One fleeting glimpse into the past
These dead will walk, and death they’ll cast.
Friday, January 25, 2019
In What Font Do We Think?
In What Font Do We Think?
by Mike Pollock
That’s like a handleless drawer,
A question in futility,
A room with no door.
Equipped with just fists,
And rage that won’t quit,
Two eyes that don’t see
And a seat that can’t sit.
These words I should speak
Are threatening leaks
If comes to fruition,
The damage complete.
My cover’s been blown
And seeds have been sewn
A cruel unintentional
Coop has been flown.
Tangled rivers to drink
On the tip of the brink
The letters keep asking
In what font do we think?
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