Taken in lust
His dust
In equality
Floats with the quality.
The abhorred
Whore
Dances with the bishop
Who wisheth
It were not so.
All men must go
To that place
Where the race
ends
And night descends.
Taken in lust
His dust
In equality
Floats with the quality.
The abhorred
Whore
Dances with the bishop
Who wisheth
It were not so.
All men must go
To that place
Where the race
ends
And night descends.
Olivia provides a wonderful description of what reading means to her. One which I wholeheartedly endorse. Kevin
Light fades.
Shades
In forgotten graves
stir.
Black cats purr.
Despair
On a broomstick travels.
Joy unravels
As hope dies
And the vampire
Glides
Through pitch black skies.
The sun on my bookcase.
Books, their plain binding suffused with light.
Cars pass.
The song of the bird, here then gone.
The traffic continues on
Swishing as the great tide
That ebbs and flows.
The bird sings again
Competing with the vehicles noise (and winning)!
A crow khaws once.
A woodpecker joins in.
9:40, sitting at my computer, listening to the morning.
I am pleased to announce that my friend, Jeff Grant’s book, “Albatross: The Scent Of Honeysuckle” is now available in the Amazon Kindle store. To read a free sample or purchase “Albatross” please visit the following link http://www.amazon.co.uk/Albatross-scent-honeysuckle-Jeff-Grant-ebook/dp/B016MCMK16/ref=kinw_dp_ke.
Sally is very generous and kindness itself. Kevin
To float on a cloud
As angels sing loud
Hymns
about the redemption of sins
Would, I think
Drive me to drink.
The devil would wink
And invite me to sink
To his abode below.
Should I choose to go
There would be good cheer.
bitter beer
and a warm fire, forever near
A girl well spoken.
The doors that could open
close
on this delicate rose.
The primrose path to hell is sweet
But the way back will defeat
Those who walk on dainty feet.
Don’t judge a book by it’s cover
Or you may discover
Something other
Than you bargained for.
Janus stands atop the door
while the raven does khaw.
Waking from a strange dream
I hear the fatal bellman toll.
‘Tis Macbeth’s owl
Signifying death.
A warm bed
On a dark October morn.
My fancy
And the cold note of an owl hunting.