Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Last Time
Always on the last line
Cynicism less than sublime
Always follow the light, twist
Away from stabs in the dark
Perhaps a breakthrough
See, here I go again
Climb high in mind and mood
Fly at over thirty-thousand feet
Yet for every high spot, I
Pull on the lead lined boots
Aware that in command
The lights shine luminous through
& on this occasion there is no
Last line
See, I so nearly made it
a poem from the collection Painted Toenails in Nortons Grate - Love with Varnish Appplied
available by clicking here