Dickensian

The day creeps over
the roadside ditches
filled with rotting corpses
of snow like the notes
of a dirge and the air is
pregnant with an
imperative to retreat
beneath the sheets
To escape from the
Dickensian misery of
this dirty pall passing
itself off as life
Even the sun refuses

Author: OdinsBard

Writer, author, Navy vet, musician, intermittent mystic, old soul and practicing poet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s