Old Wooden Logs.

Photo by Luca Bravo 

I decided to take a short walk, down the avenues of my imagination. I had a certain topic I wanted to express in this poem. Unfortunately, instead of picking up words, rhymes, and meaning, I spent time stargazing, going deeper into the city.

This poem is a result, hope you enjoy it. 

Thank You!

“Not alone, standing proud, very strong.”

Wind putting pressure, tension,
against neglected wooden logs
standing upright,
holding the shuttering old roof
with all the might that’s left.

They remember all,
started quiet, some say boring,
but time was more sleepy back then,
feeling air, seeing seasons,
grass growing, a song of birds.

Then different creatures came,
with skin and fur
on top of fragile pink skin,
they cut and killed,
slit the throat of the wooden kingdom.

Life went on,
painted in the colors of the war,
darkened with the power of the smog,
not alone, standing proud, very strong.

A minute after,
everything went old,
gone quiet, lost memory,
grass growing, a song of birds
returned,
but logs are also old.

Then came bandits,
littering with plastic,
burning unluckier cousins,
logs reminded of the fur,
a few centuries ago.

Logs thought they will die
when they felt the knife on virgin time,
but got used to, strived, captured
on the images of old times.

Those bending ancient logs will always live
until the final millisecond
of the precious air
inside the tired lung
of the last survivor
blows out, into the quiet and dead world.

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