"mantlepiece" poems
her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on
i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then
she used to wear it on her longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand
it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw
now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's wedding ring,
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
I'm an olympic housewife.
My mantlepiece of medals
is perfectly folded washing
arranged in mahogany drawers
with calm elegance
like swans on a lake.
I’m an elite athlete of the mundane.
My scrapbook of 1st place ribbons
are surfaces that sparkle
a masterpiece of purity
zen arrangement lust
like Ikebana in an empty room.
I’m an extreme sport star of domesticity.
My list of world class honours
gluten free bake-offs
blogging my parenting tips
a domestic online celebrity
like an effortless Demeter.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
I only shoot to **** my food
Not for pride or pleasure
I hunt the meat we all can eat
Not for a mantlepiece treasure
But late one night I was lying in bed
And someone was at my door
I jumped to my feet like a ninja in heat
And crawled across my floor
It was dark inside my livingroom
But I could see a silhouette
The next thing I saw took my breath
It's something I'll never forget
A deer was wearing a ski mask
His antlers poked out the top
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could
And yelled, "Bambi you better stop"
He turned around and began to charge
I screamed for my wife to get back
He pulled a knife and cut my arm
With another sneak attack
He chased me down the hallway
The bathroom my only hope
But when I tried to get inside
He lassoed me with his rope
He tied me up and robbed my house
My wife was under the bed
He went through all of our dresser drawers
Her underwear on top his head
He finally left, the house was a mess
There were hoofprints everywhere
He took the remote to our color Tv
And even our silverware
Before he left he pointed and laughed
And called me a crazy old geezer
But my wife is scared and cannot rest
Until I put him in my freezer
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 5:52 PM UTC
I found I was left a mantle clock
The type that you wind by key,
It had stood upon my father’s shelf,
Now it came down to me.
Inside the clock I had found a note
Scrawled in my father’s hand,
‘You never must overwind the clock
For time is a shifting sand.’
That’s all that it said, that tiny note
And I’d wondered what he meant,
Surely he could have talked to me
And made it more evident.
But my father had been secretive
And never would say too much,
Just that his life had raced away
And left him behind, and such.
The end of his life had come too soon,
It certainly was a shock,
I found him sat alone in his chair
And pointing up at the clock,
It wasn’t until the afternoon
I noticed the clock had stopped,
Just as his heart had ceased to beat,
There wasn’t a tick, or tock.
I took it home and I placed it up
In pride of place on the shelf,
Over the wooden mantlepiece
And wound the thing up myself.
I just didn’t know how many times
I was meant to turn the key,
So probably over wound it then,
Not knowing what was to be.
Over the following week I found
The clock had been gaining time,
And thought, that’s probably what he meant,
Never to over wind,
I tried to adjust it back a bit
To change the rate of the pawl,
But found the cog was racing away
And speeding up overall.
No matter what I did to that clock
Its speed just wouldn’t be tamed,
I’d slow it down and it speeded up,
I felt I was being gamed,
But then I woke on a Wednesday and
I thought there was something strange,
The man on the news said ‘Thursday’,
Like the days had been rearranged.
The weeks and the months went flying by,
I still kept winding that clock,
Remembering how my father died,
I wouldn’t have dared to stop.
But then one day I forgot to wind
And it slowed, and took me aback,
I held the key, was about to wind
When I had my heart attack.
Luckily Joyce was in the room
Thank god for my lovely wife,
She seized the key and she wound it up
And probably saved my life.
I never forget to wind it now
That clock’s in sync with my heart,
But now my life is racing away
With the clock still playing its part.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
I only shoot to **** my food
Not for pride or pleasure
I hunt the meat we all can eat
Not for a mantlepiece treasure
But late one night I was lying in bed
And someone was at my door
I jumped to my feet like a ninja in heat
And crawled across my floor
It was dark inside my livingroom
But I could see a silhouette
The next thing I saw took my breath
It's something I'll never forget
A deer was wearing a ski mask
His antlers poked out the top
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could
And yelled, "Bambi you better stop"
He turned around and began to charge
I screamed for my wife to get back
He pulled a knife and cut my arm
With another sneak attack
He chased me down the hallway
The bathroom my only hope
But when I tried to get inside
He lassoed me with his rope
He tied me up and robbed my house
My wife was under the bed
He went through all of our dresser drawers
Her underwear on top his head
He finally left, the house was a mess
There were hoofprints everywhere
He took the remote to our color Tv
And even our silverware
Before he left he pointed and laughed
And called me a crazy old geezer
But my wife is scared and cannot rest
Until I put him in my freezer
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 2:10 AM UTC
You are not broken, but all of the boys who
want a fixer upper find you.
They mistake their hips for hammers,
and their kisses for nails.
Their fingers, cold and impersonal,
as much hoping for a crack as
they are making them,
find the nooks and crannies,
and press caulk into them.
Shine them with whispers meant to
bring back the natural glow of a healthy woman.
They balance their hips on yours,
like that yellow bar on the mantlepiece,
is the wood straight?
is the construction sound?
No, they whisper, no it's all wrong.
Back to the drawing board, then.
This time, they'll build you right,
they promise.
Sand down all of the splintered places
where the last boys hands gave out before
your corners were womanly curves.
Dip your eyelashes into fresh black paint,
watch it drip onto your cheek
and leave it.
Watch it drip down your neck
and paint over it.
They don't believe in luck,
so they fit the curve of your hips to theirs,
not meant to be, not yet,
but you will be.
Their hands, coarse and broad,
turn your bitten, smudged lips
into things straight from a *****
open and lush and
beg me, baby.
So you do.
You use all of the words he put into your mouth like rocks:
all honey and sweetie cakes and let me love you.
They broke your teeth going down, but
they taste like the sting of a slap coming back up.
You use all of the soft places that he made on your body:
let him fill them with caulk until they are unrecognizable,
until you, too, are unrecognizable.
You show him the constellation of scars across your shoulders:
whisper do you love me now? with your hand prints wide
across my spine, the sting of your sander against my waist.
You teach him about desire
with open legs
and open lips
and the tattoo of his touches on your body.
You teach him about sadness with sharp,
corners that are shoulder blades.
He doesn't recognize those, asks himself
if he missed a spot,
so you show him your splintered teeth
broken back
burned thighs,
ask him if he wants to try again.
Don't wait for an answer.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
**Laid by the hearth in the midst of December
curled up snug by the fireside nook
the little dog stirs, at a settling ember
and the periodic chime of the mantlepiece clock.
... ... ...**
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
In each vault: a fifty pound note—
How fragile our consciousness must be!
From each well: an overflow of oil,
Gently trickling into the village's stream.
For all their wealth, no sons to be seen;
No daughters frolicking across the effervescent green.
Only weapons adorn their mantlepiece.
No pictures of family,
No memories amassed,
No records for spiritual esteem.
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 8:03 AM UTC
There are ****** people in the world. There are ****** white people. There are ****** black people. There are ****** mexican people. There are ****** asian people. There are ****** short people. There are ****** tall people. There are ****** smart people. There are ****** dumb people. There are ****** people that act nice. There are ****** people that don't care. There are people on this earth that would punch a disabled child in the face in order to hear them cry. There are people that **** because nothing great was on tv. There are people that **** for money. There are people that **** for power. There are people that would **** a woman and leave her on the side of the street for someone else to deal with. There are people that would beat a child's head in just to see what's on the inside. There are religious people that do awful things. There are non religious people that do awful things. Some people would cut off a cats' paws one by one because they liked the way the purrs changed. Some people would do it regardless of the purrs. There are people that would hack off a mans testicles just to see his face after he realizes what has happened. There are people that just want something for the mantlepiece.
To disagree is stupid. These people exist. Which is why it makes no sense to talk of peace.
When we are clearly living in Hell.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Growing in the greenery
you criticized my wildness.
Plucked me from my bush
and stripped me of my thorns;
On display on a mantlepiece
you said,
“There. That’s better.”
and slowly but surely
I wilted.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
& AGAIN: "YES!"
He stepped out of
the photo
stretched and
gave a great yawn.
He had been standing by that
wall it seemed forever.
The sun shone
in black&white.;
Outside it was
night.
He had never seen his grandson
who lived in colour
on the mantlepiece just
newly born.
He strode out boldly
in 3-D
with the strange gait of a 2-D'er
trying to put his best foot forward.
It was a long long way to
the photo of Tipperary
and the smiling newborn boy
but by God he made it.
His grandson lay smiling
in a shaft of sunlight
that rocked him gently
and gently.
He stepped into the colour
and turned into a nice sepia.
He held his grandson
against his chest
smiling
in Kodachrome.
Then put him back
in the frame.
He managed to return
to his own black& white
as headlights travelled
across the ceiling
before the telephone rang
and the morning awoke
and sleepy feet from above
went to answer it with a yawn:
"Yes...yes. . ."
& again:
"YES!"
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
AN INCOMPLETE HISTORY OF WW2
the doodlebug cuts
its silence deadlier than its whine
a baby crying
where there was a house
there was a house no more
a rocking horse survives the blast
the neighbours
across the road
move to a place called Death
"The road had a ruddy big hole
with a bus sticking out of it!"
Death always only a heartbeat away
"1939 & I
were such good friends
only time Love walked in my door!"
"Such a card he was
but he turned out
to be a cad!"
"Oh he was cad but
he was my cad
but I loved the bounder!"
"Yes, dear...the War
the War got him...
...he never came back!"
on the middle of mantlepiece
a black & white slice
of 1939
Spring is late...again
"Where have you been!"
shyly it smiles at me in flowers
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
I’ve reached the point where I start
to make sense of things. I think.
I’m trying hard at my desk
this dull June day
with its pencil-grey sky
promising rain.
But I know in the fields
the whitest wild campion
has come into flower.
And the vase that used to stand
on the bedroom mantlepiece
dropping jasmined petals
into your shoes is now filled
afresh by your careful hand.
Oh to be better at where I am
rather than where I might be.
And to think beautifully,
each and every moments’ minute.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
"I bagged this one
out in In-di-A!"
...the braggart's boast.
"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"
And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth
above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.
He looked startled as
he had been shot just that second.
"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache
...& monocle.
One feels that one could
pop next door and there
would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon
sticking out the other side.
The glint in the eye
the sneer just so
...right.
"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.
Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."
"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."
the white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.
White Rhino's
collection of colonials
is the envy of
all the other animals.
"Some more hot *** old chum?"
But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.
Declines.
The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.
The shadow making
the humans almost
come alive
as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon
and say
"OH...I SAY!
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
the clock is ticking on the mantlepiece and the house is empty and cold
it is dark, and the dogs are barking and i can't think, oh god, i can't think, because the world is imploding and the clock has stopped ticking and
it has been silent for a while now
there is no reason to panic, I tell myself, no reason at all
but this is a lie and while it might help me breathe better,
it won't put the bullet back inside the gun
it won't force the words back down my throat,
or put the glass on the floor back together
the walls are on fire and the glass is sizzling, and red-hot
the smell of blood - yours, probably - is thick and strong and metallic
the walls are on fire and i can't think, can't even breathe, because the smell of blood is,
quite frankly, overwhelming.
and then i blink and i'm back here, in the kitchen,
and you're staring at me like i'm something interesting,
like i'm not a worthless scrap that the dog just brought in,
but i can tell something's still wrong because you're talking but the words
don't quite register
and then everything comes spinning back to earth, and you're still talking
only i can hear you now
and you're telling me that it's not okay, it's not right, you've had enough and you're leaving now
and it only takes me a moment to realize
that the whole world is currently wearing a plaid button-down and old jeans with
a hole in one of the knees
that the whole world smells like apples and laundry soap
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world resides in a three pound brain piloting
rather attractive meatsuit
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world is walking out the door
and that he probably isn't coming back
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
You are the clock above the mantlepiece.
You are the ticking of the hand as it draws forth
my life upon threads of silver and green
grass in the yard, beneath the leaves of the high tree.
You are the Angel on the top of the Christmas tree.
The rain of tinsel and the dew of holly on the branches
as they're weighed down by Christmas eve rains
and propped up by the bellies of family around it.
You are the color of the grass in that time
between winter and spring
when nature doesn't seem to want to
get out of bed for the summer days.
You are the touch of velvety leather in an armchair
sat in front of an open window in winter
that lets in the cold air from the snowy sideyard
and turns my breath to fog and to ice.
You are the Clock above the mantlepiece.
You are the slow drawing arm as it creeps
ever forward, never quickly, towards the earth, and back
in a never ceasing draw toward eternity.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
Don’t say a word
come sit by the cool side of the bed
smoothe the velvet of your dress
and fix you into something you’re not
an illusion that has been bought
a reminiscense of this past
which is nothing
sober promises and wasted regrets
nothing but an idle landscape
to be revered
alone above an empty mantlepiece
irreplacable
unforgettable
unattainable.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
*women are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever sit on it... but she still plans for the chair to be there. men are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever mind the chair should it be there... and he still doesn’t consider the chair to relate to the possibility of impregnation with his *********** of the ideas she will have to eat as the prime protein... unless of course he’s forced to go against his freedom and enter her will and make god prove himself freely kinned to her will and the chair.*
i love the fact that i can
drink,
write, watch the internet,
then watch the t.v.,
think about the bones of imaginary ******
of my hand,
switch off the t.v.
write,
remember the internet is static unless there’s an imput,
forget that too...
think of something...
that’s like a surgeon’s last sight of life
that’s more than a funeral mantlepiece...
well that’s me... it’s un-rhymed and less classical
that you might feel it might be...
i want to ********** to be honest...
but what’s that, sex’s a handshake?!
well... with so many sorry and soapy faces
i would look uncaring and clean faced to say hello
un-inhibited again... again... again:
i can say say it with a life... or sway saying it
with a profession as an actor; your choice... ha:
he who laughs last laughs true, and all interpretation comes last
as first to define wages in consideration of historians -
i might have said something like iodine matched up the
creases.... although the creases never scented iodine...
and the creases where never a wedding-dress... but skin’s leather
care for aged 80 in homeric blindness:
i might have... should have i doubt unless i was schooled
to be the envious of a circus played...
it doesn’t really matter... like poetry of
girls desiring a contract and newspaper snippets of likes...
for that biography of sylvia plath ending with:
#fucktartbollockshitbiographywaytoolong!
of course... then my ironing playlist changes
and i hear xednomorph’s satan’s presence...
then ooo la dip d’e doo d’ah becomes a *******
that just wanted to **** on santa’s beard to
hear the sunshine song of lapdancing reindeer
turning lapdancing into a shave / sheering:
***** tonk thomas engineer said: plot the blues
in plural for a patched up sacrifice of itchy thumbs up
for the sacrament: icon for a scarce testimony - icon for a scare -
pears i can juggle walking up the stairs...
juggling crucifixes walking up golgotha... i can’t:
if i did... i’d be a pope or a jew!
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 11:18 PM 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
LOSING MY MARBLES
The bear rears up
against the cuckoo clock
arms outstretched as if
to catch that dammed bird
when it 9
o'clocks!
A tiger snoozes
in front of the fire
unaware of the spark
that throws itself upon
its tattered tail.
Firelight & candlelight
gleams in the beast's deadly eye.
A golden eagle
spreads its wings
above the mantlepiece
as if it would
****** the gilded frame
that holds a honeymoon.
I am a player
of marbles
upon the floor
nose to the ground
eyeball to eyeball
with my host's tiny son.
We watch in awe
as the blue(slowly)yellow
marble(slowly) rolls into
the tiger's gaping jaws.
"That doesn't count!"
host's son shouts
as the host snorts
awake to see
me with my hand in
the fore mentioned jaws
the tiger's tails
just beginning to catch
"Fire...fire! host roars
throws his G&T;
over the smouldering tiger.
The tiger gives up
the blue & yellow marble.
We return to
our little game.
Our host pours
himself into
an armchair
fat as he
and another
G&T.;
I lose.
The stuffed animals
snigger.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
It started late on a Sunday night,
The sudden rattle of pans,
With nobody in the kitchen then,
‘What’s happening, Dianne?’
Dianne went pale and she looked at me
‘You’d better go down and see,
Maybe we have an intruder there,
Just keep him away from me.’
I went, but nobody there of course,
I didn’t think there was,
But two large knives on the cupboard were
Arranged in a sort of cross,
‘Didn’t you put the knives away,’
I called, but she was there,
Looking over my shoulder and
I saw that she was scared.
‘But I haven’t used those knives for days,
There’s something going on,
Somebody must have sneaked in here,
I tell you, this is wrong!’
I turned and I tried to comfort her,
‘There’s no-one in here now,
Just someone playing a crazy trick,
I’ll catch them out, somehow.’
But late that night, in the early hours
The bed began to shake,
Dianne woke up and she grabbed at me,
‘I think it’s a real earthquake.’
I tumbled onto the floor at that,
But the floor was still and sound,
Only the bed was shaking, quaking,
Just above the ground.
And that was only the start of it,
Strange things went on for weeks,
For things would fly off the table and
Plates off the mantlepiece.
A carving knife pinned me to the wall
By the collar of my shirt,
‘I don’t think somebody likes you,’ said
Dianne, ‘you might get hurt.’
Dianne had an ancient father who
Was mean as the day was young,
He hated me, and I used to say,
‘How did he stay unhung?’
We rarely went off to visit him
As he acted like a skunk,
But Dianne dragged me along at times
To show a united front.
Doors were slamming and windows cracking
So Dianne had to shout,
‘We have to visit my father, Dean,
It’s time that we went out.’
I ventured cautiously through his room
And called the old boy’s name,
But it was quieter than the tomb
And Dianne said the same.
We found him out in the laundry then,
He’d fallen in the tub,
Had gone a couple of spin cycles,
Oh yes, and here’s the rub,
One bony arm and a hand were out
And pointed, looking mean,
We knew then who was the poltergeist,
But boy, his bones were clean.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 6:53 AM UTC
WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES
(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )
I once knew a man
who knew a man
who had seen
F. Scott Fitzgerald
drinking a milkshake
in a drug store
(vanilla or chocolate
he couldn't be sure)
flicking idly
through a magazine
( no he didn't know
which magazine )
in the company of
some blonde.
"I'll never forget
what he said!"
"Let's go to the supermarket
Shelia!" he said.
And that's it?
"That's it!"
His voice caressed
each syllable
as if
he were on stage.
But he was like a man
becoming a manakin
like in that episode of
The Twilight Zone
you know the one?"
In a future that had as yet
to happen.
"I don't know what I had
expected..."
The man who knew the man
who knew the man
who had seen and heard
F. Scott Fitzgerald.
"Maybe a Gatsby or
a Gatsby
who had survived the novel's
tragic ending
and wished
he hadn't!"
***
Here now
at home
Mr. Fitzgerald
sits in his armchair
eating a chocolate bar
checking out next year's
Princeton
football team.
suddenly like a puppet
yanked on a string
he stands up
hand on mantlepiece
like some bad acting
in a silent movie
before falling
to the floor.
He will never
get up.
***
Nick and Gatsby come
stand by his dying.
So do Monroe Stahr
and Kathleen Moore
even though
words fail them.
Yet they now
more real than he.
Monroe reads
some last scribbled lines.
"There was a flutter
from the wings of God
and you
lay dead.
Your books
were in your desk I guess
and some unfinished chaos
in your head
was dumped to nothing
by the great janitress of
destinies."
Gatsby
closes his eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 5:50 PM UTC
mother, your 8.48 touch cloys
and i shut the door on us.
it was never hard for me
to leave you in your lock-up.
behind the hardened walls
your third goblet of watered tears
slips down smooth and clean and you love it like you love to hurt.
you self sustain for the next slow day.
it helps you put on the creatress -
a black-curtained frenzy of contradiction.
you are yourself on yourself
the snake that bites its own tail.
but we dismiss the darkness of it
when what you produce is so bright.
when you beg the ugliness you **** you
the most beautiful flowers grow where you fell.
i put them in a vase on my mantlepiece
for guests to admire.
it is what you want.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
My Uncle sleeps
with pursed lips
as if kissed
by a dream.
Perched upon this kiss
a butterfly sits
as if an Uncle's lips
were the most natural
place for a butterfly
to rest
or as if
it were an illustration
of the soul
(a symbol)
in a magical book
that explained such things.
Outside the trees
breathe gently
inhaling & exhaling
a soft whisper of wind.
Bees carve a map
out of the air
for other bees to see.
Out on a limb
two birds sit & chit chat.
A fox(unseen)
passes by
as if it had never
been.
A big big bug
topples off the top
of a tiny stone
onto its back
wriggling its arms & legs
as if it were trying to swim
through the currents
of its fear.
One of the gossiping birds
sees him as a tasty treat.
Eats him.
Inside the house's
El Greco shadows
a kitten
exploring the newness
of the world it finds
itself in
jumps onto
the sleeping statue
of an Uncle
with a butterfly
perched upon
its lips.
Kitten tumbles ooops
into my Uncle's crotch
before climbing the moutainside
that is his chest.
Takes a swipe
at the soul
pretending to be
a butterfly
just as my Uncle
awakens to this reality
& his soul
flits just
out of reach
between the fireplace
& the mantlepiece.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
It was late in the morning
when I got up, bleary eyed staggering
there were wine bottles empty everywhere
boy that was a night to remember, I swear
I looked around and could not find my love
my battle harden sweet rose of fury
I screamed, where is she
waking my kin and company
Seeing the look in their guilty eyes
I knew she had gone on a mission
there was a letter on the mantlepiece
but with eyes of black cold storms
I walked out on my own cursing their eyes
I knew she wanted to impress
but to do this whist in battle rest
if I had not been so ****** drunk
I would of dusted down the mantlepiece
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC