Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Getting to hell away

It's not often I'd feel happy that I got a poem the way it was intended; I was pleased with this. It gets what I wanted: a mean spirited, finger to the ex-lover ( "you folded up small"), vengeful little poem. It doesn't refer to anyone in my life, I hasten to add.

We were lovers;

now I'm off,

you're packed away;

you folded up small.

So with curving spine

and arms belting knees

tight under chin, I roll on;

a wheel from the accident.

Ahead there is space,

to wander in,

to kick up dust;

space where fires won't burn.

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