The mind, a palace of thine invention
Dusty cogs amidst a'nther shelf of book
Memory e'er cann't recall to mention
A debt of mine own years hast blindly took
Each wrinkle testifies of such bill paid
His head of hair grown weaker but with age
Inside is but an incompetent maid
Long ago halted the cleaning of a page
The broom, now but a few loose straws of twain
Eyes cloudy, covered round the dust within
They speak of such horrible things as pain
Like all he is, an empty biscuit tin
I sigh, a smile, on faltering lips.
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Anonymity Poems
PoetryThese are some random poems I wrote. I hope someone likes them.
