Lost
I struggle through to
Find a weary gin
Her taste, her fumes and I
Just love it at the bottom
Smoky leaves
Hummin’ in the mind –
Well worn
With well-worn strings
I change
Loosen under
Coffee-black
And after noon
I come to terms with life
In quaint ephemera –
Never did I find the now –
The tone-wood structure
Greets me in the corner
She sits upon the stand
Like the ever-patient mutt
Waits for dinner
Anti-war folk-blues
Call the palate
Rasping in the grey creams
That constitute our
Smokey haze
I lift her
Love the feel
She slots in hands gentle-rough
Antiphony breaching harmony
That balances out the off-key
Rough-shod blues
And on, I take the chord
Growl the feel
Age of nothing
Takes control
And all I do is I take the strain
Finger harshly
Under pain
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem