He followed my scent
And did I leave heaps on the trail?
Rotten pinecones fermented in the sun?
Bark dripping sap like regret?
Was it sticky sweet my love?
© Delia Ross. 2021 / @poeeternal
Welp. It’s so tiny. And my very first, freestyle non-rhyming micropoem.
Gonna build my own tinfoil dome
You know how they talk about in the matrix how sometimes the mind can’t handle the truth? Well that’s the balancing beam I’m currently on