THE POET

   

Yes, the poet knows solitude

The hard side of the wood

The rough side and callow,

the bare and the rawhide

splintered, sore and fallow

..

He knows silent winters

Honest earth, bitten raw

Hooded trees cut down

Woolen mittens laid, frayed 

Fingers, french polished brown

..

Such a poisoned, stagnant tale

as cancerous solitude gnaws grim

at both the mast of the schooner

the mouth of the grey whale and

the gateway polished smoother

..

Can you ever know a thing truly?

Or choose a prize that’s fitting?

dancing with a maidens murmur

lost in revelry draped in splendour

At the dawn of that mizzen’s murder

..

Ahoy then, famed drunken traitor

carried on the silk backs of angels

authors of all that’s bright & holy

sullen yet, So tired of protecting

a nations worthy secrets of shame.

..

writtenbyedenbray25.06.2018