Iliterate Poet

A dumping ground for my works in progress.

18 Jun 2012

A bridge too far.

How many more, should cross an owls bridge?
A toll torn body blue, withered... and free.
Enduring, bitter and cold as freedom could be.
And what about those others, crying alone?
When the battle is over, the wailing ceased.
New wounds appear deeper with every crease.
Crossed were the arms and further from peace.

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