December Poem by David Kowalczyk

December

Rating: 4.8


Imagination
running on empty.

A gray breeze
blows cold as sleep.
A black wind
cuts deep as death.

A table of drunks
smash their glasses
against imaginary walls.

The sum of the
dreams slipping through
the holes in my soul.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Topic(s) of this poem: running
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David Kowalczyk

David Kowalczyk

Batavia, New York
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