My history is one of sadness
Lonely and loveless
No memories of joy to
comfort
Only the emptiness
Of a life spent alone
Like Robinson Crusoe
On his desert island
I sit surround by the
ocean
Inhospitable and deep
In my life the ocean
is the world
The blue water
Its inhabitants
Washing up to my shore
But always washing
away again
Tantalising and
teasing
But I cannot embrace
the waves
I must remain alone
On my desert island
Looking out to sea
Above a moonlit meadow
The stars begin to
shine
As I plight my troth
in earnest
And hope to make you
mine
My Sky Box is on the blink
It’s possessed, I'm in no doubt
It records all the programs I don't like
And plays them back when I’m out
They were voting in the House
On a Bill that had
Parliament split
It was to give horses
the right to vote
In the end the neighs
had it
The poet dips his quill
In the inkwell of the
muse
The resulting flowing
words
Are the fruit of
thought
Gathered on the page
In a Poetic harvest
In the well of thoughts
The wordsmith dips his
cup
In search of inspiration
And drinks deep the
draught
But when the spark is
struck
The muse was present
At the moment of
conception
Where is the kiss?
I have craved
A kiss on ruby lips
Of brazen red
Where are those lips?
I have desired
Lips like soft petals
Slight parted
Where is that mouth?
That bears the lips
That holds the kiss
That I desire
Is it kissing another?
