Words

The chill, the cold of Autumn morning

Came upon him without warning

He had retired as cold as midnight

Having composed a poem of Autumn mirth.

Yet today arrived without a smile

Poet’s tears rather, flowed onto this page

There are many things best forgot, for

His jumbled mind

A theatre of ever changing notions

In this vast metropolis, there is

Not another person that sees the world as he does.

Each person who reads these lines

Will no doubt have a varied perspective on this poem –

For that is what this is.

And it should be so, for

Life would be quite dull if it were otherwise?

This smooth white empty page, now

Strewn with words

All thoughts begin or end right here?

Poetry from The ManShed copyright (c)of the author

27/09/19