Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2014
The melting *** and rolled up snot,
gathered,
underneath the tables.

That old high stool,
that graced this fool,
was winning,
willing,
always able!

A tender ear,
tendering!
with his shillings for a smile.
That tenderness, he always sought,
but was never! gonna find.

The dreams that seemed so reachable,
always after one more glass.
The moments that he longed for,
moments that had long since passed.

Every man must faulter.
Live in the shadows,
shadows cast.
Those moments that he longed for,
hidden,
Β Β lost upon his path.
Peter Cullen
Written by
Peter Cullen  Clane Co.Kildare Ireland
(Clane Co.Kildare Ireland)   
454
   Ruzica Matic
Please log in to view and add comments on poems