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Now, here, I forever wait.
On the horseback cusp, late.
Of a wish’s, yet, to come, truth.
An outlier,
fallen under hoof.
Broken, misspoken.

Eating other’s empty words.

But, I, green, unstill,
have black-sanguine dreams.
In my tossed,
turned,
undying sleep.
Of misfortune returning me,
unto this bitter Earth.
Where peace can’t take root,
only; rumble,
brief,
under warmonger’s boot.

© poormansdreams

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