Cave Poem by Miki Byrne
Cave
Deep inside the hillsides gut,
I see its entrails. Not soft like mine,
nor red with pulsing blood
but made of its own devising.
Cast solid. Shined by everlasting
perpetual drips. Coagulated
into fabric folds, villi, drapes,
foaming waves. Built blind,
forever increasing.
Nature—is making sculptures
in the dark.
Nice poem, very artistic. You have a way with words my friend.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 6:24:44 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Nice poem, very artistic. You have a way with words my friend.