Matt Tinsley Poems

She is a flower in desolate hours
She buds throughout many things
Outlasts the winter
And awaits the spring
...

When my emptiness was of edict
I went through a migration
Incapable to predict
Among my imagination
...

She strolls amongst the tore
Piercing pins within my more
I inch my miles behind but close
She smiles then blooming like a rose
...

Not long ago, there was a land
So remote and immune
But soon enough they were ravaged too
By the evil pestilent plumes
...