The mystery of a dull day

Dear Monty,

I am no poet
But blood and bones
Bag and rattle

I sometimes slosh this body over hills
And the crow in my carapace picks at its own failings sharp beaked

Hills disappear
The leaden mist drops heavy in my head
Dull day
Disasters loom

I am a Saul
Doomed to failure
I see it like a prophecy

But then the light bursts through the dread dark and soilish damp
Bursting with bud and fruity potential.


  1. I like your "fruity potential".

    1. Getting more fruity by the day in my imagination - in reality I'm overripe.

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