"Deep unto a forest's depths
lies a temple history put to rest.
Whether man or nature swung the axe,
only death has read the final acts."

More practice. I need it, and it's been showing lately I think. Not sure if I'm in a rut, or just not channeling my thoughts as effectively as I ought to be. I really feel like my last few pieces are shadows of what they really deserve to be, and I keep finding myself dissatisfied with the result yet unable to really determine why. These defects are probably even more noticeable from the outside looking in...

Oh well, thanks for reading. Ray Bradbury once said, "It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row." Hopefully the same applies to poetry, or I'm in for a long grind with these. >.>