He strolls, he trots,
he taps to the left,
then to the right;
he’s playing a game …
His prey actually collect at his doorstep!
Sweet delight, they fill his sight.
Hope for many a sleepless night,
they dream while they may …
He chuckles over his black book
- little he calls it?
It stretches into volumes
as he plays his game …
‘Fine boy!’ they hail him;
he takes the bow,
first to his left, then to his right;
he’s only playing a game …
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3 comments:
At 6:46 PM, Anonymous said...
I have been following your clear way of putting words together and I must say i admire your work and your ability to string words together that they entwine and pass a message across. Keep it up and don't ever let a natural , wonderful talent go rusty!!!!!
Wow - the soul of a poet, trapped in the body of an order oriented entity.
Very nice - the poems i had time to read, show a sense of depth that you keep hidden. You have passion but you fight to keep in in check and in place...
Sometimes, it will rebel, screaming for the attention that it deserves... try not to confine it.
keep it in control but don't fight it - after all it's a part of you.
cool peoms u hv there, u write very well, but abeg they try enter compitition make we know whether u go win money. cos every talent should fetch u money
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