Curl Of Smoke
a small fire...
blue skies throught barelimbed lenses....
frost bitten grass turns,
the hymn of death continues....
the taste of life, sharp, and pungent!
every touch turned electric,
even the air, alive, and heady!
the sound of lives, wind blowing tin,
and the silent grieving of the stricken!
prayer falls like sweat from dirty faces,
the axe feels good in my hands.
a nip of brandy, a curl of smoke,
alive, and singing the living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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