sorry but it is a war

Today I see why I did not come
around to poetry until these
autumn hours. Peace and quiet.
Without spacious
peace and quiet, deafening thickets
turn words into nocturne bugs in scurry.
All forms of life barely animate.

Vampires feast from a bowl given
to forbearance and kindness. And ducks are
supposed to be comedic but let not a drake’s
fat wacky waddle construct
a daft distortion. Swarms ravenous,
batty, nature’s hand twisted
them to be; oh how vicious this earth.


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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