by mikesteeden

Within his tavern of imaginings, out of body looking further outwards
indulgence his shy waitress serving up a comedy of realities
actualities that would censure his each and every manipulation

Dreamlands purple anecdotes a sometimes painkiller save for
when The Master of Suspense visits unannounced, then all is
a mere twisted and spoiled incidental lecherous laundry list plot
Returning to love’s dawn he turns back the clock, visualises her one last time
sat there as if only yesterday, kicking off her weather fagged sandals
such lovely legs dangling over a ‘crumble in your hands’ chalky cliff edge
so very high above the sea anemones and their tide pool stamping grounds
“Such a long way down, too much time to think if I were to fall” a passing thought
her mood changing with the weather, grumbling grey gout ridden clouds
hailstones and illusions determining that counting one’s losses prior to loss
as a bad habit except for when an outcome is as plain as the nose upon her face
By the time he had left she was ensconced indoors sat knitting a lone spare stocking
beside a dying hearth, enter the slovenly Tom cat and it felt like home once more
Tom cat had been on the missing list for several weeks, puts down her needles and wool
a cup of tea quest overdue, not before a witless dance of petulance for the
watched kettle that never boiled, wonders whether it is life or love that is a foreign thing?
had he been about he would have answered, “Both” she guessed
for she had unremittingly been the bookends keeping safe his word
Were he not away prospecting for golden flakes he may have been of some use
yet his opulent eyes always on the lookout for more, more, forever more
It seemed only proper the ringers tolled a peal of six wedding bells, those bells sat atop
the ‘once a house of worship,’ as of now most secular of crematoriums for posterity’s sake
this being the closest he would ever get to fulfilling a vow made back when the hermaphrodite daffodil flaunted its come hither treasures, blew its own canary yellow trumpet in the company
of a kindred montane pastures indistinguishable ensemble

‘Returning to love’s dawn he turns back the clock’ certain in the knowledge
that within the macrocosms fraternal twin there is no such thing as fiction

Aside from having an ongoing illness, of late I managed to acquire Covid-19. Not good by any means, that’s for sure. Whatever, appetite alludes me, taste no longer exists, the body a human torture chamber, hence I’ve not be able to write for some weeks now. Such is life. This current post, a rave from the grave.

Copyright © 2015 to 2022. All rights reserved. Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, and lending, prohibited.

My ten books of various genres are available to purchase from Amazon as Paperback or Kindle Edition & FREE for readers with Kindle Unlimited.

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