Poem post

Explorations to-

For a lack of a better word-

Unknown to ones mind

Leaves no stretch to be desired.

Nothing here is to be normal:

The wooden table

Through its endless circular

Dimension. Trembles…

As if a waking frontier

In a mother bear’s dark den.

The exit lights up;

Breaking through the dark of night.

The sprinting- Burning-

Shakes as he breaks for it:

“A few more steps; A few more”.

The flames do dies down

After the end of the night.

The bear awakens

In the wars dank aftermath

And marches on for her cub.

Marching; marching; March

The days pass onwards to months.

The leaves keep falling

As if nothing happened

And is fine in the world.

It is in regards

To matters of peace and war.

Love? In days dark dies

Like the rest which bears cherished;

Like the rest which man forget.

The collapsing cloud

Spread across the landing point.

Forever hungry

Its stomach growled and roared and

Ate. Its stomach roared and ate.

The burning man turns

A cold finger to walkers.

The sensational timing

Which man often do brag of

Does sting; Especially now.

The arrhythmic beat

Surrounds the aura of wood.

The throbbing hands land

Creating a deafening

For all the forest ears.

The lonely bear: Lost

In a search for those long gone.

The sound; attractive.

So the bear marches onwards

To find a wooden table.

All that is left now

Is a circular tree stump.

A sickening cry

Of mourning emerges and

The last piece of hope is gone.