Amusething

I have to write a poem, I’ve been away too long, my muse must have forgotten how to play. So I sit here thinking, about what I should write, until this night time turns into the day. Shall I make it silly or shall I make it nice, a horror story straight from deepest hell? Should I tell of angels just waiting with their harps, whilst the reaper is at large to ring death’s bell? Oh please, my muse come join me, I’m feeling so alone, what can a wordless poet do for fun. I’d better get a cushion to soften up this chair for sitting writing nothing hurts my bum. But now the sun is rising to wash away the night and dawn prepares to blossom into day. I know it’s time to ponder if my sanity’s quite right as I snap my pen and throw my pad away. Ivor G Davies