The Thought
Stepping on these tin shards of glassBeneath my feet.
This slicing,
stabbing feeling-
so familiar.
Such decayed and rotting embers
in a fire
of destruction.
Enter in the dome of peace
within my bubble.
Shut the door.
Seal the cracks .
It's not over
'till that needle hits my vein-
blaming only
what's to come
of this small fortress.
3-17-10
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.