by afghanacid
(London, United Kingdom)

She keeps them in a wooden box
inside a leather purse,
the seeds to sow inside my head,
to grow another verse.
I might have caught my train I thought,
if it at the station stopped,
I’d be dreaming with my muse,
instead my thoughts are lopped.
Rushing past my muse she goes,
sitting on my train of thought,
taking with the seed she sows,
idea’s that for me she brought.
Safely in a leather pouch
the seeds hang from her shoulder,
ideas tend to resonate with time
as seeds get older.

Click here to post comments

Join in and write your own page! It's easy to do. How? Simply click here to return to Submit a Poem.


Search Here for Poetry

Click here if you love us! Follow Me on Pinterest