The Pontificators

Into the still air it curls
Nervous tendrils of chaos
Clasping itself like a snake
Entwining cursive logos
Now she knows the shape of death
She tastes sweet smoke with each breath
Entering the temple gates

Tags: acrostic

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 20th, 2009 at 9:52 pm and is filed under Arthur, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.