When Prophecy comes,
it comes to tell me what next weeks meals will be,
it burdens me not with the greatness of future visions, thank God.
Thick strands of Sunlight,
Puncture the Cloud-armoured Sky,
Earth basks in the warmth.
Maybe I’ll remember to put thoughts into words,
sometimes they jumble out.
Poets live on Word Salad.
We need more blood in our diet.
Night ride, trees whip by,
Sleep is fleeting, cold backlit light,
Words pass, time flies not.
Here’s a secret; I stare into the abyss, hoping it will stare into me,
and shout into it in the hopes of hearing more than just echoes back.
Please Check out my Patreon and contribute should you wish to.
Always remember Poetry isn’t a Choice.
Also, I’m still working on my Passion Project, my Poetry collection, In Media Rêves. Check out my GoFundMe and contribute if you would like.