Ant Smith

Poetry

Even Sunlight Makes Me Scourn

Now a single seed can overtake an ancient in its growing pace

Before you know you're in a race it's overgrown in every place

And if that seed's a broken thought planted by a thoughtless sort

Your hapless hopeless thought harvest will be distraught, disdained, discourse.

 

I need a crow to peck peck peck inside this bony cage my head

I need a blight inside my mind to weed those furrows line by line

I need an anti-pesticide to wash away these thoughts of mine

I need to quash the hope of dawn for even sunlight makes me scourn

Poetry