Posted on 26/02/2011


Sanity’s too steep
A price to pay
For a poet.

For a life
That’s unraveling
Right this minute,
Like pencil shavings
Winding as vigorously
As she’d please,

For rains serenading
A desert,
For autumn leaves
Turning yellow
From crimson.
To a spring so violet,

To this medley
Of seasons,
She’d raise a toast.
Her lips curling,
Like all along
This was a deep kept secret.