Sharp Knife
Listen to poem:
I hide in a celom of a Langur when it sleeps,
In the shadow of a burl at the door of a temple,
I - a knotted clunker rolling ever so slowly
In the corner of the brotherhood of wreck,
I - holed up as a squirrel in the barrel
Of a hunter’s rusty shot-gun
The one without a shell.
The one no one wants to touch!
I have been dusting away under a fallen church bell.
A whiz of an incoming pendulum
Rives and cleaves all the past Moons
And any pollen in the moonlight
That may impregnate her before my eyes
Unwell thoughts of an unwell being, said he
Who has been recommended to heal me
Through this virtual box in the circus of life
I sure hear, and I sure work my tongue
Along the blade - a sharp knife!
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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