Sunday, January 26, 2014

Rodak's Writings: Winterscape

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Winterscape


No majestic mountains here,
only tiers of rocky hills, hackled up
with scragged pine and deciduous bristle.
A low growling signifies first to the eye.
A high sky bathes the plentiful roadkill
on the salty brown shoulder in useless light.
I am an ancient, brittled by sedimentary regret,
my mossy soul intractably tuned to the icy north.
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2 comments:

Anonymous said...

there is a reason for the riff
true north strong and free

Rodak said...

Thanks, Anonymous.