The Object Poem by James McLain

James McLain

James McLain

From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By

The Object



The wind.. whips words..silky thin..
Spiders wire so soft..in trust it clings..
Graves..moan..still..all filled with moss...
Monuments...once dry are..covered..
Smothered..by..One wet cloud..that..
Dripps lost horizons...free lined face..

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James McLain

James McLain

From Tampa Florida And Still Living Near By
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