Cliche
My ship has not bubbled
beneath the eer' of my moat,
but battles come
I will be done,
and my queendom shall be sunk.
What will the others pronounce,
as they measure me gram for ounce,
and the people will fly me home
to misfortune bay?
Will my anchor last the living
till they sail the days?
I'll whisper you my pennies.
I'll carve out the trove,
but in it you'll not find the names.
Trust in empty spaces
and geld insanity,
it'd be without these tools
there we'd see.
Copyright © Jennifer Ratcliffe | Year Posted 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment