It was red wine streams
which flowed me to their grave
I only wished to tell them
how much I missed them,
but there was something
in the Welsh air, which
stopped my lips from moving
The closest bar
was a lifetime away,
who told the barmaid to not serve me?
There is Irish whiskey in the kitchen
empty pages in my diary waiting to burn,
this bedroom has never been so naked
My arms are mere orphans to hands
which once fought and yet, so tenderly caressed,
it’s not a love bite or tattoo upon my neck
just rope’s fingerprint before the gallows
When my heart’s periscope
views such beauty, my submarine
simply leaves verse within the ocean
and I never ever know how
to write her back to the surface
You’re on a tear lately, Rob. Which is good for us as your audience!
You sir are truly a poet. Even if you scoff at such titles. LOL.
I love where this write took me, in my own visuals. just enough detail to create a scene, for us to be bystanders to with our own eyes in our brains.