I awoke early this evening,
Just as I had planned.
I wanted to see a sunset.
I wanted....to feel.
As I sit and contemplate
the blisters upon my hand,
I realize the truth.
That ****** hurt!
What was I thinking?
What was I wanting?
What did I expect?
Why did I even seek the sun?
Am I wanting true death?
I don't think so.
Have I outlived my usefullness?
Perish the thought.
I must chalk it up to my love of beauty.
My love of all things mystery to me.
I know my tailor sews my clothes,
but how he comes up with the designs,
is a mystery.
I know my cat is hidding mice
within my lair. I can smell them, hear them.
This is a mystery as to why she does so.
My latest cloak is mystery itself.
So dark an indigo, as to be night.
The lining so dark a red, as to be blood.
With pockets of every shape and size
sewn within. Each pocket lined with
butter soft leather.
There are even places to obscure the presence of a knife.
I have decided it will be my new Mourning cloak.
Worn when dining. Perhaps a small souvenir tucked here and there within those lovely pockets.
No! That I will never do. There are rules and etiquette to be followed.
Ah, the moon shines now upon my desk.
The clock is ticking. My night time
fun ends quickly.
A last stroke of the quill. A last kiss upon a mangy, rat smelling head of crystal
and I am off.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
I awoke early this evening,
Just as I had planned.
I wanted to see a sunset.
I wanted....to feel.
As I sit and contemplate
the blisters upon my hand,
I realize the truth.
That ****** hurt!
What was I thinking?
What was I wanting?
What did I expect?
Why did I even seek the sun?
Am I wanting true death?
I don't think so.
Have I outlived my usefullness?
Perish the thought.
I must chalk it up to my love of beauty.
My love of all things mystery to me.
I know my tailor sews my clothes,
but how he comes up with the designs,
is a mystery.
I know my cat is hidding mice
within my lair. I can smell them, hear them.
This is a mystery as to why she does so.
My latest cloak is mystery itself.
So dark an indigo, as to be night.
The lining so dark a red, as to be blood.
With pockets of every shape and size
sewn within. Each pocket lined with
butter soft leather.
There are even places to obscure the presence of a knife.
I have decided it will be my new Mourning cloak.
Worn when dining. Perhaps a small souvenir tucked here and there within those lovely pockets.
No! That I will never do. There are rules and etiquette to be followed.
Ah, the moon shines now upon my desk.
The clock is ticking. My night time
fun ends quickly.
A last stroke of the quill. A last kiss upon a mangy, rat smelling head of crystal
and I am off.
~Lord Kellington
Request permission to use this poem