Just the other day I thought about dVerse community and how long it has been since I wrote a poem. It feels like waves crashed over me and kept me under water, barely letting me break the surface in time for another inhale. Maybe this old thing I revisited today might push me in the right derection.
Edward Atkinson Hornel – Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic, 1881.
Autumn is crashing his bones,
his heart a silent drummer.
Oh, how it drummed so loud
in his waisted summer.
He longs to cry once more,
but it seems his tears
have been used up
in his wasted years.
His hands have been broken
in one too many strife;
he crossed too many lines
in his wasted life.
If only he could feel
just for a moment, whole;
but there is no return
for his wasted soul.
The roots…
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The hidden side 