I roam the old city, gazing at Gothic gargoyles and touching stonework made by men long since dead, wondering how I ended up in this chunk of time, rather than one in which this land was all just forest or marshland, or one in which we all wait amid the rubble to blast off to some secondary hive of humanity.This entry was posted in Blogs and tagged city, Free Verse, poem, poetry, time, Vers Libre by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
