(About Writing) #poetry #writing #poem #books

I’ve dreamt of all
The far-gone authors,
Starry visions of depleted drinks and no rent cent accountings to associate to any one particular singular name,
Wondered where they resided in the hills in the sewers in the trenches and wrote such pieces,
If their parents themselves were versed in the same transcriptional language,
Who was it that brought them to their deteriorated knees and why

But some passengers of the turning page charter lived inside fulfilled prophecies of a campfire sun and non-lunar disclosed bloom,
Amidst rolled out countryside pallyways of
Harvested farm froth and open ventricular love

© Eric Keegan 2020

If you’re in need of some new reads, check out my collection on Amazon. Thanks as always for the support, fellow writers, readers, and dreamers!

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