deepundergroundpoetry.com
My Empty House
Saddle sore from riding the dark, but the laggards fall in my dust. As the anvil strikes my gothic inkwell of the friar's pen. But there is no one here but the dark and the moon's monkeyshines knocking at my door. But the dark is no stranger when caressing its shadow. When silently it wheezes as if death looking over my shoulder into my empty house as Mirriam - Webster's ghost. Eying my glossary and pulling at my chains of a wayfarer host.
Published 20th Jan 2021
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22nd Jan 2021 1:41am
Where is that house? I really want to go there. I love that picture. Favorite line "But the dark is no stranger when caressing its shadow". My ghosts seem to be writing more and more these days. Now if I can only convince myself to post them. Anyway another lovely write Adagio.
22nd Jan 2021 3:21am
22nd Jan 2021 6:50am
22nd Jan 2021 5:04pm
22nd Jan 2021 5:08pm
22nd Jan 2021 5:09pm
22nd Jan 2021 5:12pm
I have no idea what I'm talking about I don't have a horse, nor remember the one time I rode one when I was a kid. Always wanted too. Can't pay for lessons either. It went all to the Burker King. Riding that shit bareback sounded really good to say though 😊
22nd Jan 2021 5:14pm
I have whopper patties I've sculpted into the shape of a might steed though.
22nd Jan 2021 5:18pm
22nd Jan 2021 6:03pm
