2014 #255

Ghost had a problem with honesty.
Permitting a self-admittance
in regards to its Rose

who was not its Rose
any more than it was Hope’s
Rose, as a wizened sage’s

whittle rained shavings to a ground
browner than last week,
the wizened sage sighing

between strokes as this dense
ghost was a real piece of work,
thinking Rose was its Rose

alone, blind to seeing one
corrupt hope was one hope and hopes
can go awry – hey try a wish


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.
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