The rift

A poem.

1Likes
0Comments
206Views

1. The Rift

Quick feet

on the cold crusted dirt

Sun's heat

the sweat 'neath my shirt

 

I am the hunter

but he's not the hunted

The quarry's a runner

my feet often stutter

 

There's only so much

in a wood paneled room

That a man can apply

at winter's nigh doom

 

Breathe in

at stomach's tarve

Sky's grin

the land sees me starve

 

I am the son

but I can't be my father

His bow sang like thunder

but I'm just a thinker

 

The options are few

of what learned men do

When the quarry's a runner

but poetry mutter

at eye's last flutter.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...