deepundergroundpoetry.com

Thinking In Poetry

                     
                    
                     
Morning awakes           
with personification                      
of weeping birds                     
and rays of              
sunshine ballerinas on barre.                      
Traffic that roars                      
-lights that giggle.                      
Whilst pointsmen                      
at intersections                      
conduct                      
traffic orchestras                      
in perfected unison.                      
                     
Lunch: a metaphore                      
of marble tiered                      
bagels                      
covered in      
the thick blood                      
of tomatoes, flowing over                      
meat                    
- beaten to mince                      
rolled and smoothed                      
before a grilling  
in basted, sticky sauce.                      
                     
Sun-dials rotate                  
into long shadows                
bringing                  
a lake of dandelion                      
tea, sprinkled in                      
rivers of dreams                    
ducks waddle through                      
flicking tadpoles                      
from webbed feet                      
in the dusky mist                      
ending the days                      
warmth.            
Seeping through                      
unkempt clouds                      
covering a    
crisp-blue-sky.                      
                     
And you!                    
                   
A conjured figure                      
resting                    
in my mind                      
since day-break, like stone.                      
Holding leather bound                      
covers                      
of a life story                      
we'll only remember when                
the cleaning                
and clearing                
of the never written                  
-read everyday                
in a simple walk                      
through          
green grass, in a park.                      
                     
A quiet seat                      
under a                       
larger than life        
statue;        
armed with                      
a journal                      
and fond                      
memory                      
surrounded                      
in a sea                      
of carnations...                 
                     
whispering ballads                      
in the drafty                      
winter-winds.                      
                     
And I fall asleep, in the imagery of dreams spoken in free verse.                      
                     
Pen between teeth.
                     
                     
                     
-x-                      
   
RevolutionAL
Written by RevolutionAL (Alistair Plint)
Published | Edited 30th Jun 2018
Author's Note
Letters To Layla.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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