Author: Pontvert

The days discussions,
seem so pointless at sometimes,
now they’re really blunt.

Do I make it up,
of course i do, all the time,
here’s one i did now.

The troubles I’ve seen,
I will get a rocking chair,
rock away from here.

I sat on my throne,
directing some of my words,
into a pooem.

Change is now coming,
you see the need and feel it,
and the wind has changed.

I’m setting my goals,
and seeing what i must do,
to score , score again.

The moon’s returning,
and soon I’ll feel its calling,
and howl to the night.

The glass is filled up,
and in a thirstily sup,
the glass is empty.

The road gets longer,
the further along i go,
and counting my steps.

The moth by the light,
attracted by its beauty,
lost in mystery.

Midnight approaches,
silently the hours slip by,
as sleep covers me.

The dawn is breaking,
and there’s a real sense of peace,
in that early light.

I’m a highwayman,
I take your bubles and gems,
leave the written stuff.

I am the marshal,
I catch the thieves, write them up,
periodically.

I’m a gardiner,
and flowery words I scribble,
in weedy poems.

I am a poacher,
I take the game and write it,
just like it is shot.

I’m a traveller,
and I’ve sailed the seven seas,
and never touched land.

I was a sailor,
and such sea sick words spewed out;
waves of torrid tales.