This I did when C ran, then high and dry;
I may do, on a day designed to die.*
There's no bitter on your keyboard at all?
Life is steeped in bitter, vinegar, gall.
Folly, destruction, idiocy and pain:
the noseless one spites its own face in vain,
to prove nothing; validate emptiness,
to toughen zombie sinews in distress.
The garden has nothing to say on it:
grey clouds pass sagging with restraint of rain;
not a bird chirps these few dull minutes long.
I rest on stream-of-traffic's un-complain,
of children and dogs the music concrete;
and note one dandelion shade-blooms strong.
..............................
*Hopefully in the future not to bother with now.
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
