We sail, determined, and yet, the destination is not of our choosing, charted by memories and the inadequacy of words, language faltering in foreign depths.
This rage – this storm, waves crashing against walls impenetrable I am ice, unforgiving, unrepentant, wounded thrashing against a beast unwittingly played by you We
Is death a gentle reprieve, a final release of suffering a promised resting place? Or is it contemplation coloured by memories demanding retribution? Will death
Sixties’ doctrine was all about love – long-haired hippies espousing anti-establishment, warriors sitting for peace, getting their groove on. Too young to grasp the concepts
I am no Titania, whose mind poisoned by Puck’s subterfuge, finds your asinine nature alluring. You once slaughtered all rational instincts, beheaded my sensibility, paraded
(RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge #209 Old & Days)