The Road
the road…
dark and stretched
like some strange painting washed across the canvas
envied by the night
a flower’s death
wrinkled torment
what ghosts roam these ancient city walls?
lurking…
waiting patiently
to die
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| It Is The Night | 0 | 02/07/2010 |
| The Road | 0 | 07/17/2009 |
| I Am Witness To A Murder | 2 | 07/17/2009 |
| the poet and the gun | 2 | 06/09/2009 |
| Listen Slowly | 1 | 06/09/2009 |
| Untitled | 0 | 02/19/2009 |
| Untitled | 0 | 02/19/2009 |
| There Is A Slow Storm Coming | 0 | 02/18/2009 |
| Untitled | 0 | 02/18/2009 |
| Untitled | 0 | 02/18/2009 |
| Untitled | 1 | 02/18/2009 |
| Untitled | 1 | 02/18/2009 |
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.