The Party is Over [poem]
Imprisoned thoughts dribble down my face
while forming patterns damply drowning
like the long-awaited swollenness of
babyfaceless not so darling gentle
crowning from the queen of hearts
Ice-olated stalactites sung low
with unappreciated bluntful
breasts of blinkered glory on the edge of
trueless stories told by heartless mothers
frantic to absolve their blame
Seagulls solitary skimmed the sea
while deeper than my oceans rising
pulverized the rocks to which I cling
and then those unmistaking voices sing:
‘The key will soon provided be
your soulishness will then be free’
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 