I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
A representation of you, thinking About a paper womb, like your birthplace What will you put in there, incubating To take form, and earn applause or disgrace?
By D. J. Reddall2 months ago in Poets
Abductions abroad Icy massacres at home Bedlam and ballrooms
Your feelings do not matter to winter It has neither pity nor compassion; No smile will its icy visage splinter Nor will your pleas a path through it fashion
Many idiots Read my pale laundry as a Sign of surrender
Donning the harness Following brief liberty Chaps all healthy hides
Cult and culture spring from the same root Romans struggled to keep barbarism at bay Within themselves and their sprawling domain alike
Heretics between Days that are blessed and holy Lost, listless limbos
Winter is fluent in kinds of silence Utterly baffling to other times Of what sounds there are, the dog can make sense But they would mean nothing in other climes
What really matters Is how things appear to be On various screens
By D. J. Reddall3 months ago in Poets
All of the grim facts seem to conspire Against this mad impulse, to walk alone Through fresh snow and wind, a frozen wire
Ash and snow mingle Winter's cold exhalation A lone ember glows
Harmonize your parts: Feel with cool lucidity Think passionately
