Mean Spirit
Mean-spirited his glinting eyes,
So black within their sockets sink,
When beauty does before him rise,
It burns to make those peepers blink,

So must he put his thorny hand;
His slimy fingers on the page,
To try to poison what he can't,
And further down into his rage,

At beauty that his life won't hold,
At worthy praise that he can't bring,
To stories that he's never told,
To poems that he'll never sing.


 

Comments:
 
Trenchtownrock   Trenchtownrock wrote
on 10/1/2009 11:05:48 AM
Yes me friend you have indeed captured his ways brilliantly....well done piece.

Michele
Poetry
Other
writing Michele
"...a poem a day, keeps the shrink away!"

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