Mother sweet is not this nature
it just is a romantic nomenclature
a scale above our human stature
below the radar a tiny bug
bats us back a beastly slug
we scramble for a magic drug
hostel or home - culls vain preen
must muck in - our own mess clean
few can beam eremite serene
major scores politic in seventh key
but set right course - who can forsee?
to survivors left a hollow victory
YOU ARE READING
𝓟oems 𝓟rismatic
Poetry''sketches that shape-shift the angle and the curve'' (line from the poem 'Contrast) Recent/new poems tend to be at the beginning of the book.
