WESTFALLEN

15092014

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I know of Prussian fairy-tales
of long travels to the cemetery

I know of ancestral residue
Spirit weights stuck between my ribs

Welcome to the garden of grime and water stain
Another story to touch me -- blush

I can write from weathered bones
And draw tangles from old-age bloodlines
I'm turning novels conquered from
Half-broken tombstones I may climb

I've seen colors mute and wane
Of black-rotted iron and concrete angels
But nothing compares to the poetry
Of falling to dust and pushing monuments

I know a place overgrown with stones
Of names that came before my own

--emkatherine

©2014mkrehage™

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--DISCLAIMER!!!
un:
You do not have my permission to use, save, or distribute any entity or part of any of my poetry.

deux:
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trois:
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quatre:
Keep in mind creative souls also bring their pain, passion, experience, thoughts, and other evidence of their human conditions or existence to their art. That said, I hope you choose to present yourself in a respectful manner towards them. Also, if I may remind you, not all art is visual. Please remember this when you also come across music, performance art, stories, poetry (ahem), etc.