Section Poem by Graham Fowell
Section
The old blue globe turns in the deep black,
Dragging the white tips of her skin into peaks.
Her screaming iron heart burns white,
Shifting the mass of eons above.
The candy floss garden fluffs and babbles,
Stretched across the sunlight,
Like tomatoes on a vine,
Reaching out for the warm gold
Which will buy tickets to the dance.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: earth
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4/26/2024 6:53:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
