Conceit
Poem
Poetry
Be at your table, youngsters, finish that banquet of meals
Lord may have my finishes on this oak table
Tulips, dilemma, what would it be without a clear sight of remorse
Trauma be yesterday’s
Moral, love can split hearts in a
Soulful and sorrow-full patina
Good night, your youthful face got pulled up
On the wagons
Dreadful in this afternoon I dine
Alone at the restaurant
Willed and wilted like a bouquet of suns
Drooping towards the west
Nothing to disclose
Beyond this jails, flowers are what we are
Last weeks, joy to be honoured with
Your eyes, blue and green in a picture frame.
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