I am watching from the terrace.
I can feel the warmth rise up the wicker chair.
ashes are clinging to my lungs.
I am still.
I am still to a fault.
– SC
I am watching from the terrace.
I can feel the warmth rise up the wicker chair.
ashes are clinging to my lungs.
I am still.
I am still to a fault.
– SC
sheila sea 
a beautiful write leaving the reader to ponder where those ashes are coming from…
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Thank you, I’m glad there was a bit of a hook then. 🙂
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yes, indeed…you are quite welcome 🙂
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Good poem. Thanks for writing.
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Thought-provoking
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And so Nero fiddled as Rome burned, completely absorbed in his music. I know this feeling all too well. Good thing I’m not a deer, as I’d never make it across the road at night.
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haha, not quite at the Nero level in this story but I love the juxtaposition.
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Intriguing
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