“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label hunted. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hunted. Show all posts
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Hunt(her)
She said to me the strangest thing,
I want to smell her alone-
away from the others
out of the masked scent
of deer and leaves-
The muse has her motives.
I am still
here
for you to pick up
the web-line
and feel me
waiting
for you
to find me
First.
I must warn you,
to not go too far or listen in too deep for
the Metaphor man who
speaks with more than his tongue.
It takes a second.
Imagine how he looks
back,
being a target is merely
one point to shoot for.
Painting by J. Alden Weir, 'Hunter and dogs' c. 1912 in [Public domain].
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...