Oh Boy! One who week of poems done. This is harder than it looks... even writing bad poems on a daily schedule can take a lot out of you... No wonders poets are drunks that die young...


We build on layers,

and layers upon us,

are built.

Some of our layers

are shallow,

like silt

they blow away easily,

leaving neither joy

nor guilt.

But some layers

run deep and wide,

a quilt

that covers us

in warmth and strength.

No lilt

as the winds beat

and punish all.

No tilt

'til time

empties them

milk spilt.

The End

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