Blood is churning ever slow,
My impotent moan is growing tall.
Yet, lights and sound are deeply vibrant
In the clear mist of London air;
I would say I'm blessed with life
If not the heavy ball of mud inside
That grew from spores of this dirty light.
Insane, death is weaved throughout.
Must I fade inside and out?
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Mud by Seer Garth )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Poems Without Words, Richard Autry
- The inner child, bryan wallace
- Deepest Desire, Rajendra Nagdev
- I Dream Of You, Arthur Moore
- Reaching Her, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- The Witch, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- Wartime, Pradip Chattopadhyay
- Summer's Eve, Naveed Khalid
- Nightmare, Naveed Khalid
- City, Indira Renganathan