A Poet’s Delight


Oft when trance calls my name,
I sit and I do ponder.
Can i wail with a feather in hand
And other, a wine, much fonder.
Midnight tells a pendulum;
While I hear a silence in the distance.
The smoke of some cuban delight,
A seduction of that evening rain;
It percolates with the crimpson flow,
In dreams I fall of fall.
As shewatches me at distance,
So much as she would say, ‘more’
The drunken kiss, the misty seas
You pen a tale of your woes…

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