Friday, August 23, 2019

Dead letters


Wick ghost, most cherished
I sketch pissed emphemera in pencil
Soot tress this spring all the more
For the less of you
When callous
I laugh at your choice
Ignorant of the act, ill observant
Yet you know
I would be harder, demand you grow
Than all the giddy drunks you make
The muse like seasons
Persistent           I celebrate you wanting
More              in your unkowing
Wish you every blessing.
It is with some hurt, my jet
I laugh at your choice
But I do.
So do you.

No comments: