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SIGIL
SIGIL
It makes no sense, nor ever will
I felt that misty morning chill
Tense, like the strings of a guitar
An experience, quite bizarre
A void that nobody could fill
Weary from slumber yet so still
As my thoughts I must now distil
Life is just etching on my soul
It makes no sense
Any scent of lilacs is nil
No inspiration for my quill
The hidden words I can’t cajole
I sigh at pointless rigmarole
Meaning now a mere codicil
It makes no sense
Copyright ©
Howard Osborne
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