Poetry is not warm with flesh

The Angel is watching one of those hideous cat clocks
Where the tail is the pendulum
And the eyes shift back
And forth
Back
And forth
Back
And forth
It seemed like such a good idea at the time

The wane light of a coming day
barely wins a fight with the sheer curtains
Over the breakfast nook

She lift her instrument of self torture
She lifts the pen
Touches it to the journal . . .
The nib skips a bit
Then bites the page

She writes
“I am alone,
Poetry is not warm with flesh
nor touch,”

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s