2014 #254

Ghost comes to see if Rose
is hanging on to the few

sunshine threads that dangle
and closes the closest

organs ghosts have to eyes,
supposes a hope looks

down a sloping nose that’s never known
snow, never whiffed sin, been a pope’s

pride in fantasy, though to strive
for centerfold return, our ghost

must be judicious
with an apathy about

what the corrupt hope will get
out of smug snobbery

(could at least take a minute
in Renaming) as Ghost’s Rose is gold


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in poem, poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.