The pen is poised, impatient for inspiration to strike.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

.Midnight Reflection.

Bed, and instead of sleep, my
Reflection, messy and merciless, milky
in its faded glow.

And how the silence tolls,
tickling the corners
while I, tutu pink and clam-grey pale,

Blink
in non-morse code;
bat-like, battling the light.

Still secrets swim, suspicious and sore and
Much too smart for fishermen.

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I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.

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