blue butterfly – my words are worth

Standard

I can only plagiarise the prophets

I see in the dark.

Dig up their bones and replace them

With my own.

Gaining no comfort in my eternal search

For what masquerades as cheap clichés.

 

I find: complete

Stripped back,

and choose the same deck of spades,

dragging my fingers through the tar

and decorate caves with Queens.

Parchment curls at my edges,

in the virginal white sheets that mask it’s sins.

My quill is loaded.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s