Translate

JoeC's original poetry and photos about life and all things under the sun.

Search This Blog

Saturday, February 17, 2018




There's an old man,
Sitting in my paltry shack,
With garbled tears streaming,
Down his weathered wrinkled face,
He sits beside me sometimes,
Astride me with his crinkled lines,

Even dwelling inside me,
Writing cankerous poetry,
Singing ardent love songs,
Clearly thinking in cryptic rhymes.
I wonder as I watch and listen,
If he'll even wink or nod or ever say hello,
Or if someday I'll turn to see him wave goodbye,
Disappear in time like all my burning dreams,
Evaporate like molecules of dried up steam,
Escape like a final dying breath,

Vanish like an unheard scream.
Still I wonder if he's ever truly here,
Or is that odd old man,
Just another fragile thought,
Just a reckless daydream,
That doesn't really see or hear,
A writhing fantasy,
So it sometimes seems,
Just another painful moan,
Another sorrowful sigh,
Just another fleeting figment,
Just another lonely lie.

No comments: