Urine soaked crystalline years,
season upon century,
Rabble gravel, rat chit
and the passsing eon
darts between mastodon feet.
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Urine soaked crystalline years,
season upon century,
Rabble gravel, rat chit
and the passsing eon
darts between mastodon feet.
When I read your poetry, I feel as though you are attempting to age yourself drastically. It's a very neat effect. I haven't looked up the title, but this poem makes me feel trapped in something very ancient. Not dead, but forever frozen. Captivating.
I looked up the title, pack-rats, eh? That changes my reading slightly of the last line. The feeling of age is still present, but now I'm gathering an image more in line with a disused museum. Reminds me of some photos I saw recently of Old Detroit being renovated.
oh like an empty museum at night with rats scurrying about?