"centrepiece" poems
I might've been an only
child but I was never the
favourite. you trailed behind us at every
social event, pulling on my
hair and stepping on the backs of my
shoes. the bottoms of them were so
worn out from years of me trying to run
away that I could feel every footstep in my
lungs. at christmas none of my presents could be
wrapped, because we'd learned the first
year that it wasn't a good
idea. she made me spend hours tearing it off in a straight
line, using a ruler as
guidance. I was too young to read the
numbers on it. this year, I bought her a
necklace. I knew I had to give her something even though I wanted to
take. she never mentioned it on our Christmas cards, but it was
there, it was
there in the spacing of our
names and the negative space between our warm
bodies; we weren't allowed to
touch. she hates you so
much that she could never bear
leaving you. vacuums became my
lullaby and my father quickly grew
used to never getting kissed on the
mouth. I hate you. you were a thorn
stuck into the centrepiece of our perfect
family, and my psychotherapist says you're the
reason I still let myself
bleed.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
When you walked on me
I was groovy,
I was the rose of the spring:
everyone’s sweetie!
Your little earth down the upside-
down sky was the centrepiece!
Not anymore, I don’t want to be.
O Fathima, don’t go without me,
don’t go to heaven without me!
Without you I melt away,
burning my spine:
you know the reason why.
I passed my song down to you.
Pour it down to river, to the sea,
do as you please,
but don’t leave me.
O Fathima, don’t go without me!
I touched my dream
when you touched me,
I bent with paradise
like a flower bends in the breeze.
You said sway with ease.
(Choir, voices of women:
Every night did the moon flower,
million stars spurred far afar.
We were closer than two hairs)
I let you paint yours on shades of me.
I became you, you became me.
No one is sure where your
grave is no one can see.
O Fathima, don’t go without me!
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
When my dark clouds rise
And dirt clods fly and I try
In sheer panic to replace
Rotten fruit with dull wax fruit
And wilted blossoms with
Plastic flowers and she thinks we
Will be on yet another short-lived
But cold cycle of tightrope and
Eggshell walking . . .
She comes home
With bags filled with
Apples green & red
Peppers yellow & green & red
Grapes green & purple
Plums yellow & purplish-red
Strawberries, peaches, tomatoes
Bananas & Greek salads.
This usually inspires me to go
Outside to make
For this setting a centrepiece of a
Vase filled with a variety of fresh
Picked wildflowers which brings
Her more joy than two dozen
Of the overrated overachiever rose.
At times this seems like
One of few bridges back
To a healthy & colourful world.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
a girl found a crown on the street
clink, clank, and rolling to her feet
cold gold touched her pinkish toes-
during inspection the jewels bit her nose
she wore it all day long, in strength
found her chores list lessen in length
people blinded by it's brilliant glint
it gleamed eyes away, replaced the print
each precious stone reworked memories
envious green glass once enemies
now pink, mirrored, singular, hers
to match the crown, she wore silver furs
her cloak dragged upon the ground
other children picked it up, and found
themselves wrapped inside and gone
the village became smaller, the cloak became long
the elders dug deep at the edge of their home
while the girl was away, living alone
they discovered bones, gnawed to stumps
bugs and beetles, full, in mounds and humps
they fit the girl's old clothes perfectly
renewed dead flesh, but hurtfully
her eyes were gone, the crown's centrepiece
the flesh left again, puddled their knees
the girl had died and was eaten, long ago
it took some time, they cried, but now we know
the metal melted her fat and skin and sinew
pock-marked her bones, rotted right through
replaced a monster with her spirit, living dead
used her soul as the cloak's first thread
vacuumed others, knitted them close and thick
a pretty trinket turned poisonous trick
the elders chased the monster away
along with their children, that day
they cried and created new children, then
never let them wander again.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
So promise laden, dormant lain
Neatly wrapped in cellophane
Freshly minted, new release
Pride of place and centrepiece
Glossy pages tempt the eye
Guns and girls in good supply
Grab something that’s quick to eat
Pop the disk and take a seat
A couple of hours hurry past
Scene is set and players cast
Villain always gets away
Hero vows to make him pay
Know what would be just as fun?
Stop chatting him up and USE THE ******* GUN
But no, then they proceed to dine
With another ******* TWENTY MINUTES of unrelated story line
Shooting people, picking locks
Run down corridor, crouch behind box
Hold down R and wiggle stick
Holster weapon, crouch and kick
You know what? I couldn’t care any less
Pause, Quit, Are you sure? Yes
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
"I don't know her.
I've seen her;
A strong spectre of absolute femininity and a lingering presence so strong, that all things thereon.. revolved unto the centrepiece of her clear, imperfect, overwhelming and sinking magnitude.
The fortitude..
She's the most beautiful women I've ever seen.. and no, not that kind of beauty. Well, It could've been..
She has a darkness to her, so captivating; so dense that all article in her cense is stalled in mesmerising silence and anticipation for the next fleeting beat of her beautiful heart.. for the next pacing glaze that would tear me apart, along the horizon of mere "things" in her shade, as she looks around and so passionately drowns the world in awe.
The charm that she'd bestow..
When I first saw her, my heart stopped, literally, only to -and out of grave deafness, explode as if it has been beating 'cross an infinite expanse of scapes compressed in the swiftness of a second.. boom!
'cross the room..
Suddenly, the void that consumed out of me the very sorry existence that I am, failingly so distant to her proximity, exploded like a rose bursting into bloom.. exploding no less, from pale tasteless petals to mindblowing extravagance.
I don't love her, I admit. I don't even know how to begin to fathom such an implosion of utopian lust for the hazel green distance in her eyes, let alone love her. She might be a man-eater, in disguise, for all the possibilities of things likely.. She is, however unattainable, perhaps my greatest unembarked adventure; my Odyssey. Not so, perhaps, my greatest... the one other dream she, still that I of another kiss.. a bliss.. an even greater adventure, nonetheless.. but a rhythm for another rhyme; another prose for another time.
This.. She's ancient unconscionable forbidden bliss for the morbid spirit that I am, enchanted with sweetness and love. Volatile like wildfire, she has the world entwined in the gypsy black waves of unconstrained dreams.
But that wasn't her, who lingered back in my head... The residence was of another.. I saw her once, in my seems.. my truest endeavours for a place that screams for relentless torture behind sweet jagged beams of black light on black.
I don't love her, I reassure, nor am I in love with another. I'm taken by her like a leaf is in a storm. I am home. She's death in a green hazed gaze, for those of you who didn't figure it out by now."
A.r. Bazian
Nov 8th, 2015
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
As I see her walking from a distance
That silhouette made of pure grace
Her vibe that sent waves of good constance
Her steps toward me making my heart race
She's standing right before me
This queen of my deepest fascination
From this planet my mind begins to flee
All the way to heavens very constellation
Her mouth is moving in slow-motion
Her voice takes my breath away
She's blabbering out a mortal commotion
But on my face only a smile does stay
In this world of exquisite entity
She's perhaps the centrepiece, the highest bid
Every inch of her perfect entirety
All this comes from someone who hugs me and calls me stupid
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
You can try to make us less soft, less open, less fiery…
But you are the ones who are frozen -
The ones who won’t make the diary,
When everything you claim to be right is distorted and stolen…
You can’t stop us from flying towards the light
and glowing green and golden…
So best just leave us be… you’re the wanderers of this gallery and we’re the centrepiece…
Having travelled many galaxies to see you differently,
You still look at us with one colouring, through one sheen -
But it’s time to evolve or flee…
Our wings shield your swords and shine a light but only for those who want to see -
And those who want to see have wings like me,
And we hold each other carefully…
When our eyes meet - catching our dual infinity…
Our endless vision reminding us that within our dual lucency, we belong to many cosmic entities…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:20 AM UTC
An artist paints a masterpiece.
Uses colour to represent intention and desire.
A highly detailed piece of art becomes his centrepiece,
his everything.
Occasionally he drops colour all around him.
Every colour at his disposal becomes mixed and splattered.
What has been used to create you is now the substance of new imagery;
A new art piece created on the floor called:
'A representation of my feelings for you'.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
Miriam stands
by the camel
an Arab stands nearby
unimpressed
he holds a rope
tied to the camel
she smiles at me
with my camera
her red bikini
showing more legs
and arms
than the Arab guy
feels comfortable with
I aim
to get her central
her explosion
of red hair
matching that
of the bikini
she fiddles
with her shoulder strap
I wait
eyeing her
through the viewer
focusing
on her *******
as the centrepiece
everything else
to match around
avoiding to get
the Arab in the picture
but it's hard
as he seems to move
closer to her
as I aim once more
he says something
in Arabic
nods to her
I shrug my shoulders
she smiles at him
he moves in closer
his head leaning
to one side
as if someone
has broken his neck
she adjusts the bra
of the bikini
gets it comfortable
I look away from her
hold the camera
by my chest
when you're ready
I say
she does a twirl
in the sand
and back again
facing me
the sands hot
she says
burning my feet
well wear your slip-ons
I say
she goes to her bag
by the camel's back
and takes out
her slip-ons
and puts them on
the Arab watches her
with a dull eyed stare
she comes to the spot
on the sand
where she had been standing
and poses again
the camel seems bored
and looks
at the Arab
then at Miriam
then out to sea
I focus on her again
through the viewer
of the camera
she pouts her lips
puts her hands
on her hips
I put the camera
by my chest
need to focus
no silly faces
or whorish gestures
I say
another Arab
a companion
to the other
passes by
gawking at Miriam
then stands by
the other Arab
then they both
look towards me
hope these to guys
don't want paying
she says
they usually do
I say
now settle
and pose
she poses her face
a weak smile
her eyes gazing
straight at me
where shall I put
my hands?
she asks
that's what you asked
last night
I say
she giggles
and stands
on one leg
the other trying
to balance her
pose now
I say
she puts both feet
on the sand
and becomes still
her hands in front
of her groin
as if she were praying
the Arab guys
were jabbering away
God knows what
they were saying.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
Let us freeze
The minutes, hours and years
You and I cannot reverse
Let me take us
Into that space
that occupies
Now and another place
What was it how or
Who was it then
that cut Cheshire cat smiles
on our childish faces.
Ahh! The rabbit
the centrepiece of this snapshot
Majestic like a mantlepiece clock
Your fingers on its fur
My arm on your shoulder
I'm the elder brother
It's right, isn't it, that I'm taller.
Lucky me, the light did
not betray my eyes
They hide within the shadows
On a faded colour photo.
But it's only the light
That made a contrast
You're glowing;
Me? Oh, never mind.
You and I never played
Hide and seek.
That game was reserved
when Dad's late evening feet
drew close to our door.
He balancing himself
against his stupor
Exhaling intoxicated
Dumb, gibberish in
Deafening slurs.
Take me back dear brother
When I held us.
I, the elder
and you, the survivor.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 4:59 AM UTC
I roll in stolen moments
no deep contemplative hours avail me
an immovable watch, snatched and dashed by phone
or lipstick honed prose shopping for scandal
I am
the broken hands of faith offering naught but a vagrant malediction
where, but for a few chatty fists further, they remain below the none
in the unbound knots of shallow ruin
black
boxed
and cut into catastrophe
a unified cleave of impoverished woe
“immoveable?” say I
“I may chance sleep if it were in the hands of one beyond where ill goaded geometry is gone
Immaterial
come already danced, implacable
and I were vitreous to their bacterial digestion”
such chatty cracks may answer above their unleashed wish but…
“but what?”
…but the chiral sun lies on its back smoking those hooves which have waited all day
the eternal don’t offer faith in my diorama
so I own them
my own
my own scars that burn nicely enough
without your fire to iterate the bones
a few more herniated throats might join us yet
for a conveniently flagged final rebuke
each with a semi-toned profanity
as precocious coda
aged and offered with two fingers down your maddening throat
picking up, if I may, where I left off yesterday,
before you so rudely walked away
or was it a year or so before?
I remain bored with these gods
twice removed from the approval ratings
their open mouthed statute holds no limitation
to my ambition
let me see those waves which are racked beyond recall
much like your neck should be
through jawed ears and briny tongue
a muffled centrepiece fetid
save for recalcitrant sinew
I shall be the sky in which your virtuoso limbs must swing
swing
spastic in their envoi
now, serpent spat, pin-grinned, how is this sleep pain in the mirrored wide-why?
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Like flowers,
You were beautiful in my eyes,
A faint sweet smell would engulf my senses,
As I held each stalk delicately in my hands,
Everything about you; I admired.
Like flowers,
You needed sunlight to grow,
Carbon dioxide; vital for respiration,
And water, aplenty to seep through the saps,
to bring you to life
Like flowers,
I took you to the heart of my home,
Placed you in the prettiest *** I could find,
Filled it up with water,
Fresh from the tap,
I put you on the table top,
for everyone to see
Raw, rare and real,
There you sat,
Beautiful as you are,
The centrepiece of my home
Like flowers,
Days went by,
and so did your petals.
The leaves had started to wilt,
The stem- shrivelled and weak
Like flowers,
they reminded me of you,
of the feelings I had for you
Fresh, crisp, beautiful at first
But in the end,
All that remained faded away
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
There’s an angel down in my garden plot
But she’s overgrown with weeds,
She looms up out of the sassafras
Set back in among the trees.
I don’t know how long she’s stood out there
But her wings are green with moss,
And her tired face is a study in grace,
Reflecting a sense of loss.
‘Your flesh was an alabaster white
But it’s almost faded to grey,
You’re weather-worn, and you look forlorn
As if you’ve been cast away.
The days when you were a centrepiece
Of a garden, laid and fine,
Have now passed on, with the garden gone
But I’ve found you now, you’re mine.’
‘I promise I’ll clear the weeds away,
I’ll scrub the moss from your wings,
I’ll light that tender smile on your face
With the glow a spotlight brings,
I’ll bring you back to the glory you
Reflect from heaven’s spell,
And people will come adoring you
When I put in a wishing well.’
‘A wishing well for your hopes and dreams
And the hopes and dreams of them,
They’ll touch your gown and they’ll toss a coin
When they leave, they’ll wish you well.
I’ll sleep with you looking over me
And dream of the King of Kings,
And see his crown as he’s looking down
We’ll see what the future brings!’
I worked to see my promises kept
‘Til the angel gleamed and shone,
But one day there in the garden wept
For the angel there had gone.
She’d fluttered off from her plinth one night
With her feathered wings reborn,
And through my tears, and despite my fears
I rejoiced at the Crimson Dawn!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Trifolding centrepiece, breaking foundation blocks...
Mundane enterprises fronting vital thoughts
Me and my worries, soldered into one...
A depth of pure purity weighing a mighty ton
The innocence of others who name me with a pretty tongue...
The doubt in those who’ve seen me, when my nerves were wrung
Order of the phoenix sitting behind old shelves...
The authors of some stories must have splendour in themselves
Bring me back from wonder, take the dreamy from my stare...
Call me back from dreamland because those books sure land me there
But sitting in this cold seat, frost building in my soul...
It’s easy to forget kindness and every kind word I’ve been told
The world constantly takes from us, the will to soldier on...
It robs us of the reasons to triumph even when we’ve won
I feel sometimes the battles are really not worth the fight...
When my arms just feel like holding love and being held all night
The will we need to summon hate and numbness of the heart and bone...
The sacrifices that wait to be made to turn your ‘human’ into ‘stone’
Is it really worth the effort when it jades and wrecks your core?...
I have heard them ring, their chords have called, to the drudgery of war.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
There is divinity in these cards
Shuffled by my uncertain hands
In search of something more in lands
Wherein dreams are true and guards
Knowledge unseen
By those unwilling to convene
I am the centrepiece of conversation
Mysticism upon a table laced
A spread of dealt cards spaced
Across a rotation
Of images and mysteries and clues
Which together will create a fuse;
A circus of circuitry which makes sense
To me but others find to be nonsense
There is a sound
Not unlike white noise
Sometimes words can be found
Other times words are destroyed
But it’s pleasant
By the grace of the omnipresent
The inked-on paper reveal of fate
A message by all which is ethereal
A message by all which is celestial
An ever-changing future
An ever happening present
A never changing past
A crucifix shadow hangs upon the light
Captured in awe before my line of sight
But of the shadowy Moon?
One may presume beauty and serenity
But that is not the truth
Illusions and anxiety
The subconscious and insecurity
Fears and the release of fears
Unhappiness and confusion
By dreams and intuition, I ponder questions
Yearning for suggestions
What may come to my life so soon:
What is next to the Moon?
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
Martha stands
in the church
by the font
where babies
are baptised
she looks up
at the roof
then slowly
moves her head
downward to
the Crucified
old plaster
wooden cross
painted in
wound in side
plaster nails
in curled hands
and crossed feet
and painted
plaster piece
as the cloth
around His
centrepiece
(private parts
Mary said
not that He
used it mind)
Martha sighs
walks nearer
stands beneath
and looks up
and wonders
what she'd do
had she been
at the foot
of the cross
at the time
(Mary said
do **** all
like the rest
and just stare
and pretend
you weren't there)
Martha puts
her hand up
her fingers
touching Him
on His feet
(cold plaster)
then kissing
her fingers
(other hand)
places them
on His shins
and rubs them
maybe I'd
have done that
to the Christ
if those fecks
the Romans
had let me
she mutters
very soft
to the high
Crucified
His hands out
at each side
or would she
she wonders
just have cried.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
You made my heart beat in tandem
And that I could not fathom.
I needed a heart that was kept stable
As though it wasn't on the edges of a table.
One gentle breeze of air to knock it down
Or one drop of liquid to make it drown
I needed my heart to be the centrepiece
So it won't fall to become decease.
I need not be on the table edges
Being avoided like a rose in the hedges
Being trimmed away by worn out scissors
Or like a ceiling without pillars.
One gentle breeze of air to knock it down.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
There lies the hope
Shattered into small intricate pieces
Left to be blown away by a strong current.
And darling you destroyed my world
Left me hanging together
Like thinning thread
Bleeding from a profound wound
Stinging to the touch.
My God I've seen so much over the years
The Black Death screaming to take me
The drunks counting their loose change
For one golden can of cheap beer
Drinking it like the thirst is undying
Like the magic is there
Inside something that leads to more
Havoc.
I rejected the chance to become a man of my word
I crawl into a hole every night
Drunk to the stars
Grasping onto a swollen envelope of love letters.
And it strikes me
I'm impure
My liver is descended in liquid
My heart is unqualified
And this haze is thicker than the mist
That powers through this town in the light of morning.
Part II
I wake to a stricken morning
A snowy wind hitting against the windows
The tress screaming out
Swaying at an almighty pace.
I swallow two painkillers
To set me up to fail
I dress my aching body
Managing not to break bones.
I take a drink of cheap wine
Nasty on the tongue
Deeply putrid
I think it might be off
Swimming in dirtiness
Curdling my uneasy gut.
My hands are dry
My beard is itchy
My life is swollen like a abscess
Ready to release ****
The TV blares out politics
I scorn the man
Spitting his woes
His laughable thoughts
His damaged world
For all to **** on.
I go through old boxes
Of pictures
And letters
Stacked up like a small skyscraper
I look at her angelic eyes
Her enchanting face.
I can't leave her to rot in a box
I place the picture as a centrepiece
For me to look at when I'm feeling
Tired of living.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
Meet Doctor Montgomery
with medical science he knows best -
a figure that some worship
and others detest,
for in 1974 he was revelling in his prime,
studying Biological Science at Oxford university
life was smooth and incredibly sublime.
Alas, he fell as a ****** addict,
seeking hidden answers,
that not even modern science could predict,
performing back-street abortions
bringing in the money -
by 1976 addiction was in full swing
and his wife had noticed something funny
and upon the Eve of that Halloween
she'd just had enough -
took the axe from out back to his study
but the blade was blunt and the oak door too tough
however her efforts were in vain
as Charles immediately opened up to greet her -
"My love, look -" He whispered,
gesturing to his centrepiece glass table
whereupon sat
a linen covered cradle -
slowly she peered in,
ignoring his entranced stares -
and what she saw wrapped in blankets,
was the seed of nightmares.
For Charles Montgomery
had been practicing the work of witches;
collecting deceased babies,
and sewing life together with surgical stitches -
"Do you like it? I made it for you..."
She gazes around, speechless,
eyes blurry with stars -
shelves and cabinets full
of body parts preserved in jam jars
throwing up at his feet,
going mad with depravation -
"Oh Charles -
IT'S AN ABOMINATION!!!"
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
It’s a windy day, and you’re boomerang in my mind, or rather a yo-yo back and forth, incessant mayhem, never lost.
Although to and fro I still search for you;
I still check the tree where we carved our initials to see if it burns with the same passion we once shared. All the while reminiscing, giggling about the prospect we told, about sharing our finite eternity together.
I still place my forefingers on the left side of my chest and the underside of my chin (the familiar one, which your hands couldn’t bear the urge to explore) and wonder if our hearts have remained in sync.
I still flick through the photos we took, negating me, so my eyes could hold you solely as the centrepiece. And as you encapsulate my peripheral, your statuesque looks through me, my attempts to meet her gaze are done with unfound desperation.
Now I peel the bark from the tree to unearth the truth, the once tree of life is now cold. Gone.
I need not check the rate of your pulse, as mine exists in irregularity when my thoughts are of you, and yours remains a constant “Ba-dum”, with no reason for variation.
Alas, as the “what’s” turn into “when’s” and the “where’s” transpire into the “why’s”.
A “who” is never uttered, for who else but you?
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
Rusted arms,
Connect with ageing joints,
To turn pointless cogs,
In a once well-oiled machine,
That now grinds itself to dust,
Under sheer pressure of self-inflicted weights,
Held in place by still sturdy chains,
Each link strained,
As the creaking oak of the axle screams,
Splintering in discordant cries,
Until finally,
Shattered dreams manifest themselves,
The ancient timber splits,
The centrepiece collapses,
Bringing down the entire contraption,
Flawed design finally takes its toll,
Tearing each pitiful component from its place,
The walls crumble,
Light falls on the remains,
Of a doomed creation,
Imagined,
But imperfectly realised.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
It could have been framed,
But it wasn't right,
The 30 limit's reflecting
Sharp streaks across any lens,
And the calm curve of frosted hill
Is interrupted by the regimented
Steel men stood strong,
Arms wide against the wind,
Wires buzzing faintly from hand to hand,
And the silvered centrepiece
Is a foot too far left,
Drawing the eye from the glorious
Landscape to crumbling walls
Once firm against elements but
Neglected by time.
It could have been framed,
But it would not be beautiful,
So I framed it anyway.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
This restless unquiet love, rages like a torrent from the mountain above,
With an almighty roar and bellow, in torment I helplessly wallow,
Scarred by an iron-fisted glove, spirit broken like a wingless turtle dove,
Am I brave enough to let my blood flow? by a blade I too readily know
Will I ever be at peace? am I another victim of love’s caprice?
Canute-like, I battle a tide of despair, bruised perhaps beyond repair,
I await trial, a sacrificial centrepiece, in a court where I have no voice,
A bat-squeak whispers salvation I swear, there is still hope I declare!
Courage shall be my redemption! cowardice banished without hesitation!
Faith swells my strength mightily, victory assured I prophesy,
Prayer heralds a blinding vision, a heavenly banner that is no illusion,
“Love did not abandon you we clearly see, you cast it aside without mercy”
I wearily prostrate before the Almighty -
Yes, one brutal rejection,
Which became a prelude,
To a near lifetime of dejection,
A sad waste, but less painful this way, I tearfully conclude
© Robert Porteus
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 11:51 AM UTC
My bedroom curtains,
Are a rich, Penfolds red.
Of which I am quite certain,
They hide the stage inside my head.
The unkempt bed, a centrepiece,
For every act of this here play.
My ******** my kingdom,
Come stay for one mere day.
Clouds are forming on the roof,
Some celestial being's frown.
Now it's raining in the arena,
So bring the curtains down.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 10:29 PM UTC