Munted remains of a mossy moon gate. Tangled in marigolds, it marinates. Nighttime’s zenith, it yawns wide. Lures our children. Echoes lies. At first light, its maw shuts. A golden grave.
Trying my hand at limericks.
Munted remains of a mossy moon gate. Tangled in marigolds, it marinates. Nighttime’s zenith, it yawns wide. Lures our children. Echoes lies. At first light, its maw shuts. A golden grave.
Trying my hand at limericks.
Rachel's Floetry 