A HUNDRED POEMS – C WHITE SPACE DETOURS

I ride the path by mouth
and nothing more
The pen is dried  and tears
have taken a road by south.

Who should feed my vagrant words
they starve at day and flee by night!
And detours, forked by white Spaces

And pregnant pauses give birth
to tiny doubts upon my ink!
I watch the children drown there.

A fountain in the square of town
is where I dip my quill,
and the Crier shouts,

“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!”  

Remember all the good souls!

:: 08-23-2014 ::