Wednesday, 20 April 2016

The Queen of Spurs

Day Twenty





One soundless night you were the midnight-chaser,
A spark-lighter; gardener of thoughts.
From zip you became many things,
Heart-hider. Beat-mover. Verse-walker.
And then you wouldn't stop being.
From a rare nonsense-peddler,
to highbinder in tales. Grin-giver,
and bestower of strange monikers.
The gone-wrong chocolate-ducker.
I forgive you, my midnight-chaser.




No comments:

Post a Comment

A Fiction

This evening I silently drift In the pleasant fiction of peace Here upon the very field On which no end of battles Have been waged In ...