September 10 by The Running Son
ßlue /\/\ountain §tress
A fine Blue Mountain morning, friend! See stills shine,
polished brass with lightning white glory inside!
Birch and Oak’s shade casts casks alone, and to the bone
dating, ever so poorly.
And now to the task of camouflaging, bravely. Ribs cage
the boiling spaces deep inside,
separating barreled chest pressures from gasses forming
Now, all’s gone mush where the devil’s cut scored ruts!
Plus, the borders of all Blue Mountain back-routes
are manned and corded, and blockades ordered. I’m stuck:
Lord of splintered boards.
by Jim Aldrich (:
Created for the prompt: Sapphic Verse from We Drink Because We are Poets
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.