Friday, 22 June 2018

the word is

the word is

the poets are pillow fighting in my mind
their torn dictionaries spilling feathers
to fall as snow upon my lines
as i fly around grasping at straws 
to build a huff and a puff castle
in which i screech scared that 
a real poet will burn it down
and leave me with the ashes of a dream
of a poem on a pyre 
a nugget of pyrites 
that doesn’t even warm a fool 




No comments:

Post a comment