twelfth night, awaiting


Olivia:  'Why, what would you? ' 

Viola:  'Make me a willow cabin at your gate 

             And call upon my soul within the house . . .' 


Shakespeare, Twelfth Night 




therein it lies




it is not black

it is not sad

it is, awaiting


it is not cold

it is not bleak 

it is, awaiting 


there is the sun

at night the moon 

and distantly, the sea 


there is the surf, awaiting

and you, awaiting





Poetry by one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 57 times
Written on 2023-06-08 at 16:15

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Sona The PoetBay support member heart!
Such anticipation! Beautiful indeed.

Welllll, this is rather delicious. All that promise in, what, 14 lines? But the last two wrap it up neatly and tie it with a perfect bow, laced in a perfume of salty ocean danger.

You can mic drop now and leave the stage.