Our poetry is the last dreamy song sung in haste by a head on the rails listening to the rumble of the approaching train before the steel crushes its thought. - Farewell, by K. Satchidanandan I take up poetry with a little trepidation. Prose is easier, it is all there, marked down into tidy slots; … Continue reading To poetry and all things sublime
Wildflowers bound the wayside Thistle flowers and forget-me-nots No one watched them. They grew Of their own accord. No one cared. They willed themselves Into existence. Tenders shoots peeping out Feeding on the morning dew And the fire to meet the sky.