Sun heralds thunder
in the heart of beating plain:
her hand on my chest.
Rooted earth peeling
at the crossroads leaves colored,
the sounds children left.
Short Poetry
The Runner
“Never,” said the man,
and on he ran
pursuing the stars
like a drunkard to his bars,
crying “No” awash in the glow,
but never yet to know.
* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! If you get the chance, be sure to check out all the other talented One Stop poets posting there – and what about yourself? If you haven’t signed up yet, and you’re among the creative…what are you waiting for?
The Waking Den 