Storms Poem by mark anthony st. rose
Storms
I feel like my soul is caught in a dozen storms,
like a desert storm erasing the norms,
trying to turn convention on its head,
and though I live I'm dead.
A ghost walking; a ghost talking,
the undertaker stalking,
trying to drag me to hell,
lock me in the Devil's cell.
But I fight with last breath,
to escape the clutches of death.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
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5/6/2024 10:06:19 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Lovely write, absorbing imagery.