Short Poem

Something is dead beneath me

And this blood stained chair

And these wrinkles

And this small spirit that keeps going on

Something like some thing that used to work once,
used to cry
instead of shelter
inside a little grave
working back and forth like a rickshaw
in the dead of night.

Short Poem

Martin Lost

South Yarra, Australia

  • Artwork Comments 2

Artwork Comments

  • mick8585
  • bellmusker
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