The Tastleland I Poem by John W. McEwers

The Tastleland I



Barren.
She is barren.
My world.
Fruit dried.
Nothing to eat.
No fruit to find.

Frigid.
Air is frigid.
Ice cold.
Glaciers formed.
Nothing for heat.
No soup to warm.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
John W. McEwers

John W. McEwers

Nova Scotia, Halifax
Close
Error Success