Ant Smith

All poems

Even sunlight makes me scourn

Now a single seed can overtake an ancient in its growing pace
Before you know you're in a race it's overgrown in every place
And if that seed's a broken thought planted by a thoughtless sort
Your hapless hopeless thought harvest will be distraught, disdained, discourse.
 
I need a crow to peck peck peck inside this bony cage my head
I need a blight inside my mind to weed those furrows line by line
I need an anti-pesticide to wash away these thoughts of mine
I need to quash the hope of dawn for even sunlight makes me scourn