Yesterday
daydreams bleed away
Writers' blocks
And nascent birds fleeting at the brain.
An author throws his lasts work in the bin
Preparing himself to begin again.
Does he get up to glance at that old oak in the distance
And it's older ghosts smiling on in melancholy at the newest addition
Of a menagerie building timeless in the sunset
Of ancient souls whispering?
He thinks so, going back to work
Mauling maudlin ideas, nay,
He rests destined for the rocks,
A fan and the pain
of peeling skin,
typing on a laptop on a needle pin.
A comfortable bed and a sleepy stance
Weary with one of the many false smiles and broken thesaurus diction
Groaning and moaning in that unpleasant ache, a bet
To sleep in peace staring, turning
He looks toward that food and knife and fork.
Waking in torrential rain
Who could move for the cold and pain?
Grimy, grungy, that book stays in use…
Paper trails surround the author
Of fortune.
'Dreams again…
How long since he's had them?
Years that ripped and tore
Hardly ever dared or bore
Any sign of times good and past.'
Moving from a stopped point in the ache
Never seems to stop the quake
In his limbs, fuge
Of ideas spew onto the thick mud,
Torrential and opportune.
'Does it do good to lend
Aid to one who's been naught but thin
For all that's worth
The mirth,
Drowning in a casks?'
Wantless needfuls ' restless in the din of passing crowds
A gambler in time, sitting in a back alley
That no-body notices.
A slight awning does nothing to keep him dry,
And the ink's about to run out.
By and by, a useless shroud
Covers little and protects less than the abbey
That no-body notices.
There's no material that can light the fire
And the walls are crumbling in.
~Little useless perygryn
Old and young, and so divine
Sits in a corner all by themselves
While all that surrounds them;
Poisons and motives~
An old coin plops in front
From an old lady who's already gone
and sits in his hat,
His writing askew
As he lays his head to rest.
ISA
Writers' blocks
And nascent birds fleeting at the brain.
An author throws his lasts work in the bin
Preparing himself to begin again.
Does he get up to glance at that old oak in the distance
And it's older ghosts smiling on in melancholy at the newest addition
Of a menagerie building timeless in the sunset
Of ancient souls whispering?
He thinks so, going back to work
Mauling maudlin ideas, nay,
He rests destined for the rocks,
A fan and the pain
of peeling skin,
typing on a laptop on a needle pin.
A comfortable bed and a sleepy stance
Weary with one of the many false smiles and broken thesaurus diction
Groaning and moaning in that unpleasant ache, a bet
To sleep in peace staring, turning
He looks toward that food and knife and fork.
Waking in torrential rain
Who could move for the cold and pain?
Grimy, grungy, that book stays in use…
Paper trails surround the author
Of fortune.
'Dreams again…
How long since he's had them?
Years that ripped and tore
Hardly ever dared or bore
Any sign of times good and past.'
Moving from a stopped point in the ache
Never seems to stop the quake
In his limbs, fuge
Of ideas spew onto the thick mud,
Torrential and opportune.
'Does it do good to lend
Aid to one who's been naught but thin
For all that's worth
The mirth,
Drowning in a casks?'
Wantless needfuls ' restless in the din of passing crowds
A gambler in time, sitting in a back alley
That no-body notices.
A slight awning does nothing to keep him dry,
And the ink's about to run out.
By and by, a useless shroud
Covers little and protects less than the abbey
That no-body notices.
There's no material that can light the fire
And the walls are crumbling in.
~Little useless perygryn
Old and young, and so divine
Sits in a corner all by themselves
While all that surrounds them;
Poisons and motives~
An old coin plops in front
From an old lady who's already gone
and sits in his hat,
His writing askew
As he lays his head to rest.
ISA
