From my poetry blog.
Midnight, July We writhe with a rage to know the unknowable, blind to great masses that dance in dark orbits. And a soft, summer wind on a night beneath stars is no balm. From somewhere a whistle casts a line, a fragile camaraderie in a world fell silent, where white moth-wing is riotous and a spider's touch carnal. ©AndrewJamesMurray
Advertisements
It’s nice to revisit this poem!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think poetry is good for that. Like favourite old films, or albums.
LikeLike