I scour the cottage for signs of past presence
L ike a famished orphan at the erstwhile site
O f a long-spilled rice-sack, grubbing some essence,
V estige of sustenance. Hope gutters fitfully not quite
A Muse Whispers
A Muse whispers
and the soul's pricked-up, hand cupped ear
strains hard to catch each syllable
wafting over memory's embers
Die woman! Please! Just give up and die.
Your tangled life-line warps my strangled dissembling smile.
Juggernaut logic tears my tortured bowel:
Says you must go. And this I must hide away?
To The Over-Tender
The mind and heart sustain contusions
By jumping to the wrong conclusions
And intellect, perhaps, divines
Too much by reading twixt the lines
Moaning its broken-voiced bull-with-a-hangover wail,
Blinking its tired dim rheumy bloodshot eye
So, hello vertigo! Bane of other's lives not mine.