Re: All Our Poetry
Chained Link Fence
Crusty fingers with dirt burried under my nails,
Cuts and scrapes, and opened wounds, covered in sweat
After many trials of climbing up the monkey pod tree
Not being able to scale the side of the elongated trunk,
To have a peak above the hedges.
Sitting in the mound of dirt, I'd watch and stare through the diamond rings of the chained link fence, Panning the edge of my perspective at the over grown grass blocking my veiw. Imagining what lay before the gate.
Mountains puffing up arching overhead, on the other side like big jagged teeth poking the clouds and stealing the sunsets from me.
I remember casting rocks out as far as I could throw it just, to see if I could hit it, cracking and shattering glass of homes and churches down bellow in the valley. Haunting me for my errors, as the pastor spoke to everyone except me as I hid, but no one knew.
Gazing at the worn metal structure impeding my way I recall tragically staring through the rusty peep holes with my grief stricken friend at the helicopter hovering down the mountainsid, not knowing it was his brother they were rescueing from the turbulant waters, who past away shortly after.
Now that I am leaving, I wonder if the fence will hold up the fort, while I am away.
Peter Littlejohn The dyslexic Poet
Chained Link Fence
Crusty fingers with dirt burried under my nails,
Cuts and scrapes, and opened wounds, covered in sweat
After many trials of climbing up the monkey pod tree
Not being able to scale the side of the elongated trunk,
To have a peak above the hedges.
Sitting in the mound of dirt, I'd watch and stare through the diamond rings of the chained link fence, Panning the edge of my perspective at the over grown grass blocking my veiw. Imagining what lay before the gate.
Mountains puffing up arching overhead, on the other side like big jagged teeth poking the clouds and stealing the sunsets from me.
I remember casting rocks out as far as I could throw it just, to see if I could hit it, cracking and shattering glass of homes and churches down bellow in the valley. Haunting me for my errors, as the pastor spoke to everyone except me as I hid, but no one knew.
Gazing at the worn metal structure impeding my way I recall tragically staring through the rusty peep holes with my grief stricken friend at the helicopter hovering down the mountainsid, not knowing it was his brother they were rescueing from the turbulant waters, who past away shortly after.
Now that I am leaving, I wonder if the fence will hold up the fort, while I am away.
Peter Littlejohn The dyslexic Poet
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