It couldn't have been more than
A passing flicker of ventilation,
Highlighted in the air by a streetlamp -
Becoming adjusted to the observation
Of packaged ink in a metal box
And weeds coming through the asphalt,
With fumes on the verge of theft -
Leaving all but discomfort intact.
It might have been, that every sleeping thing
Lay quiet, out of respect for time,
Its many burdens, or influential pull -
That they all lay still, out of touch.
Perhaps it was, a fleeting quip on the night
Ridden by words too faint to notice,
Or a delusion planted by age's resplendence
That sprouted bulbs in a slumbered city,
That, somehow, a flat bench became a lighthouse
And as it just so happened, I was resting there,
In situational coincidence, guiding other lights
While I, myself, was lost.
-
Author:
Nicholas Browning (
Offline) - Published: December 15th, 2023 05:11
- Comment from author about the poem: Hey peeps, if you've stopped by then I appreciate ya. Another write for practice, mostly, but much meaning in it. I'll admit it's a bit of a personal insight, or just one of the many ways I see mine, but still applicable to many things I think. Hope you enjoyed! - I edited this twice so far after posting, might do it again lmao
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Alan R
Offline)
Comments2
Good write N.
Erm, I'm in bed past midnight. Could I title my similar poem: 'Soliloquy in the morning, afternoon, or evening?!' lol.
Or just Soliloquy? Talking to myself. No change there then! lol.
Solidarity amongst you and yourself is a sure sign of schizophrenia! That can't be good for the pillows D:
Am I me, myself, or I? That's three of us. Which one(s) are you? lol.
Great sense of the scene. Superb work.
Many thanks my friend. Thank you for the visit!
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