Pale offering


The words themselves have wings

but my intentions spill

poor versions of the best of them

for I am prone to ill thought through


whence spent have gone off half-cock

and I am left with the litter

scrunched balls of rejection

on the floor and in the bin,

lost but nascent masterpieces

simpering in the blushing shade

of my ragged ego

I am reduced

a two bit Ealing cinematic hero

wailing of the woe it is for me

for they can see my infamy

This wincing, wrinkled pain

is angst

I am ruined. A prune

in a basket of grapes

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