Here I am,
sitting in the dark
alone next to the turtle pond.
There is no rhyme,
no reason,
and no sense
as the turtles are asleep.
I stay up late
for no purpose at all
and my mind is oft adrift;
I worry for the future
about the past
and evermore the present,
but I can't make up my mind
and the turtles are asleep.
Under muse of calls
and drunken babble
I excuse myself outdoors,
though naught but weary silence
do I find myself to meet.
A walk to clear my head
and maybe soothe my heart
under the blaring of the tunes
and the bustle of the street,
though my presence comforts not
while the turtles are asleep.
Mayhap I think too much
or perchance I think too hard
though I cannot answer why;
my oft derisive thinking
has often drawn me far astray.
Do I think myself a fool?
Do I think myself used
or perhaps misunderstood?
Do I really qualify
to ask all this of myself?
Or maybe it doesn't matter
and it never ever did
and I'm just some guy
slouching at a pool
in the dark
while the turtles are asleep.
YOU ARE READING
Imagination
Poetryim·ag·i·na·tion /iˌmajəˈnāSH(ə)n/ noun the faculty or action of forming new ideas, or images or concepts of external objects not present to the senses. Otherwise known as "Musings of the Balladeer." This is an anthology of poetry I've written...
