Treasure Island

Patti Masterman


No Cure


We are the leaden statues,
Who creak the world with comings and goings.
Fate lies ponderous beneath our feet,
Our will of basalt, grip of iron.

Our pasts rise high, like a mountain range
That obscures well the clouded future;
They say we're divine, the offspring of gods-
Or else a rust, on worn-out sutures.

Submitted: Friday, June 20, 2014

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Topic(s): aging

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  • Smoky Hoss (6/24/2014 7:52:00 PM)

    ... this is what I love 'bout yer poems! ... makes me ponder, from the soul... I like it. (Report) Reply

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