poetry

wraiths

Iron your crease...

          Look back seldomly.

    Ultimately true,
          They secretly do:

                  Thought long-ago slain,
          Echoes, they don’t cease—

      Warrior-wraiths remain.

        But iron your crease;
            Chiseled-stone, refrain:

      The best, duck-maybe,
Is the plane they won

            Just ahead o’ thee.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Underland
        https://windstrewn.com/2020/09/12/underland/


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