A poem by Jon W.
A place forgotten for a long, long while
A place that hides
In the lines, the cracks, and hollow smiles
A place unknown by eyes-wide-open folk
A land with shadows of the mountain tops
A land with valleys, dark and deceitful
Replete with bleeding wounds.
A land with lakes so clear, so clean
Or clean enough, at least.
Enough to see the broken glass
Death of bottles dropped by drunk old men
And shattered mirrors held by gilded girls
Still the fish
Black and green, blue, white or grey
Were seen below
And so quick to be caught.
Elusive, but slow.
The little boy laying on his hammock
A head filled with
Dreams and laughs and hopes
Rows of fraying knots between
The folds of his salmon tee
He was sleeping. No, just tired.
At least, that’s how
Well-mannered, his pores oozing sass and charm
His eyes could not open, though, not in
A place like this.
With fog so thick and breezes so frigid, it was
A place where all come
A place where all leave
Because it became my home.