| |
| Unpoem | 5:27am tuesday, 9th april |
Delight my pen of rhythmic phrase,
Delight my poetry of days;
I dream of life and life dreams me,
And in my years my dreams to free.
Hello, I start, and stop again.
Ahem, that is, and then... and then?
Many words and none will fit —
Where's the clever? Where's the wit?
I think my poem circles 'round.
It stands and walks, and won't sit down.
Delight that I have naught to say,
Just do it pretty, not blasé.
|
| |
|
|
