Midlife Creases

 
From womb to tomb,
Time takes its toll.
We shed these skins,
Like Russian dolls.

From breath to death,
We grow and slow,
With selective
Mem’ries in tow.

From one to ton,
We become more,
But still remain
The ones before.

From cord to Lord,
The time is brief.
From ward to ward.
From Eve to wreath.

 


chained to free verse

 
i find it fucking hilarious

that the great thing about employing free verse
is that it enables poets to be completely free and unique in their writing

but that almost every modern poet seems to only employ free verse
to imitate bukwoski