THE NAKED FRAME

The naked frame
Of poetry
Lies bleeding
On the floor
Theres broken bottles
Half finished drinks
The police are
At the door.

I could not live
Your  life it seems
Wrapped in sellophane
And bubble wrap
The anger and passion
In my soul
Rolled firmly
Much too tight.

In littered remnants
Of a day in shame
Bloodied knuckles
Who is to blame ?
In principle I was right
A prison cell my home that night.