The bookshelf, sated,
Sighs in the mess of jumbled
works - crowded, complete.
Half a bowl of soup
Is all I ate this morning
Weight loss, bitter, fast.
Eyes old and yellow
In wrinkled countenance grey -
White curled hair bright, rose.
Stuck in hospital
Bed to greet blame for bringing
Soul into disgrace.
Water fits through the
Cracks that run along my wall
Cleansing lunacy.
The blackbird dives quick
To the ground spying brown bread -
One white tail feather.
No comments:
Post a Comment