His day is but a true disguise;
a quiet Sunday, uninterrupted by the doorbell,
unchained by circumstance, freed from fashion,
in loneliness so deep he can’t explain,
almost crying because he can’t describe it.,
waiting for the rain of the day which has yet to be.
He doesn’t have the nerve to speak, just gazes,
but with sufficient humility to make him proud;
thankful for the conversation that he grasps,
but fails to speak out loud;
the surroundings say everything that needs to:
dry rot’s concealed beneath his creaking boards.
Exploding words and questioned deeds -
to stretch his mind to comprehend this wealth?
He walks around outside to clear his head –
his cul-de-sac, come alive again.
(Each line is stolen from a fellow poet here)
Now, as technically this is a wee plagiarised collage, can you subjectively mark it yourself? I'm giving it ten despite the nonsense in the middle, but with the ammo you had to work with, well done.
Ah, yes indeed, now I see why you said 'no prize' on this challenge, becuse there's never much point in posting a jiffybag to oneself, is there! Fab Michael. It works in your hands, for sure. As ever, your humble servant, etcetera....
Winner of the Contest - but don't tell GGunn, OK? This really made an unusual but effective poem, and it is strange, how it all ties together..Well done, Michael.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An excellent combination Michael, the poem blends quite well! ! Angie