Poetry is a fantasy world, but I am incapable of appreciating some complicated words, for I have neither patience nor intelligence, for the vague and fake. too aloof, I’d save myself the grief. All night long, I’d rather hear the sleepers toss Between the darkened window and the wall. The madman’s whimper and the lover’s voice, The worker’s whisper and the sick child’s call— Knowing them all I’d walk a mile, maybe, Someday become a rebel, Armed by actions, not a pen-pal, Siege a new world, banish the papal answering each call in person and Each poor demand. Such simple love I have, Fulfilled at once in a fantasy world. And for now, I’d have been better off sleeping myself. These fancies had some sentimental charms, But Love with mere poetry is a cheap blanket, Although it did no one any harm, No one is warm.
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Ha! My thought exactly! That’s why I gave up reading this week. 😀
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Same here🥂. That’s why I write less and less😂
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OMG — that was great!
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Thank you, Brent! 🤗
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I really liked the second stanza the way you describe “I’d rather hear the sleepers toss
Between the darkened window and the wall.
The madman’s whimper and the lover’s voice,
The worker’s whisper and the sick child’s call—
Knowing them all”
There’s something so melancholic about it. Brilliant poetry Annabel.
~Jay
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Thank you, Jay! Your kindness makes the day brighter🙏🥂😁
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Cheers 🙏🥂 you’re most welcome 🙂
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