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.