Beneath the helm
there lies a realm
of one, who like a crooked elm
discreetly brims
with wooden whims
extending gnarly naked limbs
that long to touch
but only clutch
the remnants of a faulty crutch
and can’t achieve
the least reprieve
so log about the lust to leave.
4 comments:
Just reach out and you are bound to touch someone. ;) This is a very moving poem.
you made me think of that song -I'll Be There :D
Hold on to that thought and yes, I'll be there...hopefully not alone. :)
Rhyme and rhythm meets and makes harmony in this piece; the stops are just right, I pause where I breathe. :) Cheers.
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