The parade goes on. It never stops.
No beginning. No end.
Thought after thought after thought
overlapping, bumping into each other,
faint, loud like a bassoon.
I try to be patient but it's hard.
Surely one will fall out of line,
drop onto my page and surrender to
the Oxford Book of Synonyms.
No. Those thoughts are poetically resistant,
teasing and taunting my 5 a.m. mind.
I'm sure I heard one giggle as it passed
by an hour ago.
Then, in the inhaling half of a deep sigh,
it happens.
"Excuse me," I hear, "would you like to dance?"
"Oh, yes I would."
And off we go in the magical pursuit of
an elusive poem.
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Author:
DesertWords (
Offline) - Published: April 13th, 2019 08:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: JB
Offline)
Comments1
I adore this. What amazing imagery! And the word "surrender" ugh! I absolutely love words like that!
Your very kind comment is appreciated. Chasing the poem is almost as fun as catching it. Thanks.
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