Incan Light

Boom, boom, boom, boom

Chipping away at the storm of grey

Fireball scorched chanting mountain skin

Rumbling, fiery not fury, not my kin

Chanting MAYDAY, MAYDAY

Shackles shaking shedding cold keys

Now I carry a query…

How well does a bearer of the axe fare?

Chopping up burdens on her wings

With a wee seven hundred years fed to this mere axe

Yet alas, Light must stay chipper.

This poem makes me...
  • Think (62%)
  • Smile (23%)
  • Somber (0%)
  • Surprised (8%)
  • Feel a Connection (0%)
  • Inspired (8%)