Poet # Eight

Pea soup fog and me a fly,
I struggle to spread my wings.
There is no way this can be real,
But my cut feels real, and stings.

Cut, oh cut, a bleeding wound,
Running along my arm.
Wrought by loony's knife, you are,
A promise of further harm.

Genre-savvy and fit I am,
And also rather shrewd,
But still I fare as badly as
A PYT gone nude.

Run, oh run, an awkward sprint,
Through the mist and trees.
Chased by loony's knife, I am,
My blood is sure to please.

I fall, of course, flat on my face,
It's really no surprise,
But to see that he had fallen too...
Well, I couldn't believe my eyes.

Fall, oh fall, blessed descent,
While I dash off in peace.
Saved from the loony's knife, I was,
And he's safe with police.

 

The End

162 comments about this poem Feed