Rain drops
Patter on my
Window pane
You are far
Away in woods
I miss you
But I know
Freedom
Is a part of you
And travel
Your first love.
I’m content
With the rain
And my
Thoughts of you
I try
To pen
A poem
For you
But Words
Get tied
A block
Called writer’s
Made by writer’s
When they can think
But not ink
And ink
But not rhyme
Hits hard
On my window pane
Like rain drops
My thoughts
Are jittery
Scattered
And strewn
All over the place.
But my love
Is whole
In my mind
And soul
It is only you.
She danced and swayed
At the Moulin Rouge bay
As she burnt the stage,
Came clamour and pay
But all she cared for
Was the little one,
In the cradle
At her dim lit home.
Rouge and rogue
A word play
Not for her
For she sold herself
To feed her love.
Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash
Torn books
Folded pages,
Memories wrapped
In a time warp
Crooked lines
Marking
My favourites’
From a time
Gone by
Sniff
Same old smell
Of lazy afternoons
A fairy tale
Gone right
Books are mirrors
“Tell me who’s
The wisest
Of all”
None, yet all
You realize
And you are
A fool
You fail
And you are
The winner.
Look within
Beyond the cover
And the pages
And the writing
On them.
Look within
And hear
The voices
That arise
Look within
And feel
Your story
Has arrived.
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