![]() BOWLINGA Poem by Secondhand sunrise
He slides his fingers in the holes,
His hands are filled with the cold, He stares intently down the lane, As a drop of sweat hits the floor, Staring the last pin down again, Waiting for the perfect shot at fame, He throws the ball down the lane, And turns around to the screaming of his name, The pin, the number seven pin, Was the last of his victims to fall, Now it's no more than a memory, As the bars wipe it all away. © 2013 Secondhand sunriseAuthor's Note
Reviews
|
Stats
246 Views
1 Review Added on August 15, 2013 Last Updated on August 15, 2013 Author![]() Secondhand sunriseAboutI'm new here. I'll try to be honest with your work if your honest with me. Im happily married and am super excited to have a little girl on the way. And am writing my first novel. So "tune in, tune ou.. more..Writing
|