A Land Shadow (Iambic Pentameter)
I’ll bear no arms against my right,
for I am slain daily by what
is left. A stranded timber for
a fire, a shadow over me.
And little do you know about
the right, or what is left defect
within decaying life. While some
of us are dogs, some cats are kind.
A lively living, living such
a lie. Suppose I knew, the moon,
a pinhole, was just punched out
from my quarter shot at the sky.