Waiting For Godot, Doggon It!
Our golden years page 'twas never a mother of verse
by Titus Llewellyn
an old codger maybe, on the verge of diminished capacity,
forever torn by the puppy dog eyes of some reimburse
who waits for some bona fide poet with wry eccentricity.
Casper scarecrow they called me, derge of the small talk
surrounded by the dislocated facades, whose endeavor
and British humour 'twas never clear cut crystal, to walk,
like a failed dreamer - though, who'd fathom me clever?
Oh! Bleed me love! My curiosity is so much deceived,
in its so-called envelope of a hopeless romantic?
Mercury rising on a whim, a soul meets body seethed
while another goes on about something pedantic.
Crushed by all this generic hearsay, untitled of course
that the voices, the war angels to your alto-ego
presumes the chromatic gesture, be that of remorse
accepts that any Gypsy via Orleans forecasts in Santiago!
Earthstone, that foundation from where I came from,
ignores the fact that the melodies I am hearing,
are as olde as the lute from which our deaths' become,
graciously as my imagination is somewhat overbearing.
Godot for some known reason views me, 'George McKim',
as one who wants to be left alone, not as a token
but as the echo of silence from your reading of him,
sees now, your young confusions - but I'm not broken!