“For a wannabe writer,
That’s a pretty poor plot.”
I clutch at humour to drown
tripping on tongue-tied impotence.
“What do you think will happen?”
Impossible question.
I dread that you may become bored,
and I, a flash in the pan,
a glint that deceives a drudge miner’s ritual.
“Just spit it out.”
I don’t say what I think:
You are not Fool’s Gold.
You are the thought marauder,
the cat burglar of my sleep.
You are my nugget,
brighter than today,
and I will not look away
from the scorching brilliance
of your charm.


Leave a Reply

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

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

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )


Connecting to %s