A thicket of thieves purloined my letters, trampling them underfoot,
into the mottled leaf carcasses strewn on the path,
recklessly ravishing a rambling creek in a rain-rutted ravine,
drinking crystal-clear water, slaking thirst with iciness, reviving tired limbs,
lounging bone-lazy in a magical copse, tracing the skeletons of dragonfly wings on the breeze.
What else have they stolen?
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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