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| Topic: Roulette Crossroads | |
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Standing still where the compass dances,
a rattling needle without direction. Clutching scoops of air naively believing, moments are held between closed finger gaps. Cyclones that spin roulette crossroads are best stopped by green lights. Truth tastes bland to unseasoned buds. |
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Roulette crossroads... I like that.
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Thanks for checking it out y'all.
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Nice! Are you sure you aren't standing over a large iron ore deposit?
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It's nice to read your poems again, welcome back my friend.
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Sorry to isolate, but
"Clutching scoops of air" Man! That's Great! |
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Edited by
technovative
on
Thu 04/20/17 01:45 PM
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Well if so that might explain what's frozen the locomotion of my magnetic boots. Now if this fidgeting compass would just point me towards the nearest shoe store I could get things moving again. Lol
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Thank you for taking time to read and acknowledge my poem, lu. Thank you also for making me feel welcomed. :)
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Thanks for checking it out and sharing your thoughts, Beach. It's interesting to learn what elements of a composition grab a readers attention.
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Frozen locomotion of my magnetic boots. Good stuff techno. I truly appreciate your gifted talent with words. I anticipate more. Thank you.
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