Strange dreams with moustaches dragging
swim below small lights.
Like silent actors trapped on stage
they chase and swirl among scene props.
Draped in moods of ebony, scarlet, ivory
they practice again
their hot fights,
their cool snubs,
their smooches.
Then each bows deep, mutely glugging,
for the brown slow-motion snow
falling like applause.
Perplexed
18 years ago
1 comment:
Nice! We have a Beta fish and that bowl is a little nasty--no poetry inspiring anything there. Except maybe the "brown snow" it totally reaks of fish stench. But the Beta, surprisingly, has no smell whatsoever. That fact is very much appreciated by me.
Keep them coming Goosey.:)
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