Goings On

Woke up way too late no longer early
The shelves looking full of empty bare
A box of hate bought without money
Pay for nothing all so unaware

No key to turn this house the street
The clothes are worn the threads of dirt
Crying cold tears of rain and sleet
Lose the theme torn to lose your shirt

Pretend the glasses still have a lens
:Pick some violets out of the ultra zone
Select from boxes of borrowed pens
Answer the Man stealing your telephone

Reading a book where the pages expand
Into interwoven worlds that never fall flat
The one who wrote the words you understand
She has someplace to go somehow you know that

No one is real the characters that speak
Inside your inmost inner secret shell
Walk upon wooden floors until they creak
Like a path offering something to sell

Escape the box the locks and tumblers
Wrapping around your soul like weights and measures
Addling up loses counting numbers
Snapping chains of control such empty treasures



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 16 times
Written on 2025-07-13 at 15:34

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