Gord

2018-09-19 06:50 am

As poet, aspire, assume desire,
I wrote for poets, declining,
Prose for poetry, I grew designer.
More spoke, iron, strewn aside,
Cycle heroic for biking true,
Though as porch, her mire I knew.

To sit in snow, still forever, cold,
Gladly to mix into a sill window home.
Lover's letter, one pens from notes,
To end on soles, or in bags of herion,
And never spoken, lovely, but phoned in,
In drunken speech, early in the morning.
As men, we aspire, and assume desires,
I wrote for Odin, always refining,
Notes for nobody, I grew aside,
Man of the world, I knew her ire.