Poems from andrewtheviking
It might be very true that I’m an afterthought
A ghost whose essence fades like pallid morning motes
of dust that dance on rays cast...
The houses of the holy made from rotting pine and ichor
the soft sinew of fallen things abounds
the stench of decomposing things could...
What whisper though the field lily
and lilac hush twixt Spring and Summer
am I to listen to?
And will it hear me too?
I, weary thane of...
guess this is how you master dancing with the stars
a slew of ancient footprints in the sand
So pirouette upon the roofs of houses made of...