Where do these thoughts come from?
From what cavernous pit do they erupt?
I have entertained these strange thoughts before,
And every time I do, odd dinner guests have they been.
So melancholy and desperate,
I know not what these thoughts need.
I cannot ask them to leave,
That would be rude and then they would stay out of spite.
I cannot ignore them,
That would be rude and they would increase their presence.
I certainly cannot converse with them.
That would be a suicide
And then who would I have as dinner guests?
Who then would play hostess?
I do so hate to be rude.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Prophecies
PoetryRain falls in crosshatch across the lamp lit sky, splattering the asphalt ground with splashes of reflected light. I look at the sketchbook in my hand and trace the penciled rain and smudged glow. It was shit. I let to book fly onto the muddy grass...
