Tips

Breath escapes my troubled lungs

a rope a fingers touch above my head

Ligments extend, muscles ache then burn through weakness instilled

 

a sheath, a ragged layer thing

 

moments late and still perspiring by that moment

 

I grasp untill my tips pour down my wrist

till

 

a single bell rings ontop the hill

beckons for the pasture in

unless they wish to brave nights gaze

and signal on determined raze

 

I sweat unless the moments still.

 

Reviews

[Peter Joseph Swanson]

Love it!