ANGRY LIONS

 

 

 

 

 

A trench coat wrinkled with age;

rusted buckle, miles sewn to the breast.

Lost loves covered by a thick sleeve.

 

A roaring dungeon of dark winds;

angry lions scrapping heavens floor.

Deep pocketed hands; fingers clenched

toward unmerciful giants.

 

Shutters rattle; the song of emptiness.

Branches creak like aged knees; the end

of prayers feel cold.

 

A wintered steel cold breath licked

his lips; gray is his favorite color.

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s