by L.M. Browning, except from Drive Through the Night
Ride this life hard
Wrap your legs tight
—thighs around her rib cage, pounding.
Take hold in the rush
—fingers tangled in her mane, entwined.
Don’t look back,
there is nothing for you there.
Recent Poetry Posts
Red dust, sanguine from Sangre bleeding into the snowy roads that lead to the hidden mountain …
They say poetry must tell us something of life and the wider-world, else it is confessional blather beyond use, but what if I want it to be only for me—in all its obscurity?
Souls age in thousand-fold nights, wandering across internal landscapes to desert’s edge.