The Poetry Marathon

Ouch ouch ouch

sore feet, antiseptic, echoes of retches

a booming train, rustling leaves

wishful thinking

whether old and dear or to be discovered

books are the magic of this world uncovered

I’m gunnery the 8th, I am.
Gunnery the 8th, I am, I am.

He’s buried in the ditch, he is.
Buried in the ditch he is, he is.

And every time I think about him there,
I recall that we’ve done this before.

There’s always another friend to take that place,
And this is all one big mistake.

I’m gunnery the 8th, I am.
Gunnery the 8th, I am, I am.

The tempest rages,
Wind, rain, thunder, boom.

I’m trapped in a cage,
Scratch, claw, cry, doom.

It’s of my own making.

The sunshine is there…

For the taking.

I’m entering this on my phone to convince myself I can do it at 3:50AM after having just woken up.

And at 4:50, and 5:50.

Looking forward to the challenge. And to sleeping on Sunday.