Tentative knocking on a suburban door,
Innocence enters but departs no more.
Clothes scattered on the bedroom floor,
Dreams shattered to be dreamed no more.
Innocence Lost
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Tag Archives: k morris poet
Yeats Is Dead
Yeats is dead.
Poetry has fled.
Nonsense fills the collective head.
The falcon has flown.
Chaos is sown. .
We reap the whirlwind alone.
(http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172062?gclid=COymhN2TiscCFaYfwwodsmoO_Q).
Reluctant Lovers
The joyless kiss.
The passing lips.
The empty bliss.
No, not this!
Stoney Ground
Lonleness kills,
Seeks solace in thrills.
Emotions shut down,
A crisis profound,
Seed spills on stoney ground
Dolls
He collected dolls both black and white.
Twas his pain and his delight,
To hold them tight at night.
Few words where said,
As they lay upon his bed
With eyes cold and dead.
He touched their skin so real,
Though love they could not feel.
One doll his heart did steal,
But her passion was unreal.
His soul it turned to steel,
No longer could he feel.
The Whispering Wind
The wind she whispered in the trees.
Her voice I heard, but did not heed.
Now my sorrow is sighing with the breeze.
When The Party’s Over
When the partys over and deflated balloons litter the floor,
Will you in joyous tones cry out for more?
As the final guest, their face a mask slinks out the door,
Will you in a hearty voice exclaim, “this way of life I adore?”
When lingering odours of celebration sicken and appall,
Will you with equanimity the night’s events recall?
Cloying
Fleeting moments of joy,
With repetition begin to cloy.
Endless pleasure seeking will the self destroy.
Heels And Skirts
Heels and skirts,
Man’s sense does him desert,
Heels and skirts.
Heels and skirts,
Nothing can his lust avert,
At the sight of heels and skirts.
Heels and skirts,
Money thrown upon the dirt,
Stupidity will always hurt,
Heels and skirts.
Drowning In Nightmare
The suffocating dark holds me tight,
Locked, in the arms of nightmare through the blackest of nights.
Sweating, unable to arise from my bed,
I lie, black imaginings running through my head.
A ghoul by the bookcase stands,
Intent on dragging me into death’s barren land.
What is that shadow on my bedroom door?
My dressing gown hanging or something more?
