BENEATH THE SPANISH MOSS by Jeffrey Littrell

storms sound different when you travel alone
when you’ve been running your entire life
in search of where you’re meant to be

perhaps that place
where Spanish moss hung from the trees in sympathy

does the love we hold inside of us
have an expiration date
if not given away,
does it eventually rust
or crumble to dust

as the words in a classic novel
stand ignored on the shelf,
my love lies dormant.
while the grinning demon
at my side
sheds another layer of skin

memories
become polaroids in an old shoe box
regrets of love lost
cast shadows on the promise of a new day

with the coming of dusk, left hoping
that the comfort from her breast
might return me to the place I was before

beneath the Spanish moss

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About digthroughlife

I am a fifty-three year old poet who also writes fiction. I worked twenty-three years for the USPS, though never enthusiastically. I am a member of French Writers Worldwide and have had several poems published in French and Spanish. I hold strong opinions on music, film, and human rights. Some of my influences are Charles Bukowski, Arthur Rimbaud, Dylan Thomas, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, Sylvia Plath, W.B Yeats, Bob Marley, William Blake, and Hunter S. Thompson. I'm an avid fan of the New York Yankees, Oakland Raiders, and Indiana Pacers. I like traveling by car. I enjoy seeing rock and alt-country bands in small venues. I hold a black belt in Taekwondo, but no longer spar due to injuries incurred in a motorcycle accident in 2005. I play acoustic guitar. I love Crown Royal whiskey and California Kush. Women are both the bane of my existence and all that sustains me. I believe strongly in the power of love and heartbreak. View all posts by digthroughlife

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