A stalk produces a dripping sap
When freshly cut
And it does not when healed
Much like a poet
Sentiments are sheathed
Grew calm in being used to being itself
Memory alone doesn’t bring back anything substantial really unless it’s guilt
I am armored in tranquility
Acting out of immediate stimuli
The sun passes coldly overhead everyday
The wind whistles by
The night was deep in its recesses
The dawn is sweet with dew
The only thing that rips the quiet is
The roosters’ forceful crow
The eastern glow puts shimmer on the waters
He yawns and lazes- this boatman- complacent
His oar rests on his lap letting his boat adrift
In the current
mifael llauderes
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adrift-18/
