Tranquility on the lake results in a perfect reflection
Gentle breezes rustle the leaves of trees above
Some too old and weak fall gently
Small ripples but the images still remain
The same
Diving bells make their way across the turbulence
Riding tides of small green curled boats and then
Disappear into the depths
If you were to look in, you could see the bottom
Of yourself
Categories: poetry
The Sad Owl
I'm just here. Until I'm not.
Leave a Reply