Cold

A cemetery pauses in an autumnal forest wherein the tears of a

Thousand cats create dew in the absence of leaves.

A small boy of no particular design nor fancy listens to the

Click-a-clack of automata configured by clockwork match men.

Walls crack as the worm bleeds.

Cold.

Reviews

[Riss Ryker]

Outstanding, Robert! I got chills reading this, as it's the kind of poetry I adore. Can't wait to read more your work!

[Gene Von Banyard]

Thank you so much lovely!