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 S paces

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 ::