The mystery of a dull day

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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.


Comments

  1. Charles Hawes9 May 2016 at 12:34

    I like your "fruity potential".

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Paul Steer10 May 2016 at 22:49

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

      Delete
    2. Paul Steer10 May 2016 at 22:50

      This comment has been removed by the author.

      Delete

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