Jan 15
1 min read
Overtcast
Black limbs against the cobalt daybreak,
Turning toward gray on muted grey,
The tree tips bend and sway, not break,
And dance there high off in the cold,
Tempus Fugit, growing old.
© SXT 2023
I write stuff when something begs to me to write. The goal is to write ten-thousand things before I die. I tend to be morbid, reflective and personal.
