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poems 2 die for

Tag Archives: 744

CRISP

CRISP

the Sun
not yet crisp

have we
Aztec priests
to thank
for this?

crisp
is what the snow
in deep space
believes
itself to be

no
Sun
of any ilk
to bring
some
raging warmth
soften that reality

to what fits sweetly
within our range
whilst
we hold tenure
of
this place

Posted byDamian GarsideAugust 30, 2024Posted in1, poem, poetry,, poem,poetry,Sun,cold,Aztecs,humanity,744, 994Tags:744, 994, Aztecs, cold, humanity, poem, poetry, SunLeave a comment on CRISP
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