Old bones
ancient thrones
no where to sit
I write thrift shop poetry
so I can be with you
forgive you
for writing graffiti all over my wall
some beggars stand tall
amidst the rubble
some people like power, I admit it’s trouble
I want to set sail
find the holy grail
but she’s already found
I want to sing songs make sounds
I want to kiss her pursed lips
but mad quips make me a fool
I just drool
but pennies fall down wishing wells
I yearn for her voice it’s all I hear
but in the door way to other worlds
I may find her
or a kinder version
it’s the waters the cup of immersion.