sun stutters through a tattered shade
creating an opalescent patchwork
of gently broken beams
in the sequestered garden
a toppled obelisk
finds warmth,
keeps watch
in the mine
green canaries
breathe as though oblivious to the here-and-gone spark
it is a day as like
and
as unlike as all the others..
the locket is worn smooth, its faded contents secure...
we are pastiche...all the rest is eldritch and sward-bloom
a old movie, the owl and the pussycat, has a line of bad poetry which begins 'the sun spit morning' I've always wanted to parody...this is my attempt....it (perhaps) serves my two-fold purpose...fun to play thusly, it is...'>)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
oooops...make that 'an' old movie....