The Hill Poem by Martin Moore
The Hill
I drift beside the pure crowned homes
that hide behind the drifts
virginal capes on snow capped domes
loosed from clouded rifts
Lights lead me to lifes bottomland
my artistic decline
a frosted pallet, a frozen hand
an absent muse or sign
Thus if I wish to rise again
to battle through the slush
this hill will be my painting
and I, my own paintbrush
Friday, October 20, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: art
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5/3/2024 4:12:34 PM # 1.0.0.1119
lights lead me to life, good write