Poems from exhil
A hundred leagues of flame
To which I never held a match.
Comfort stings without the smothering gift of rain
But the catch is to collect...
Once I saw a flutt’ring bird.
Care it not the ‘comp’ning murk
Right behind but rest assured,
Have but I professed a cure.
Here me now,...
Like the Rose of battle sweet,
My inner Yeats drops cash beats,
Paying no attentions’ way,
To the worries day to day.
Sin, I’m saying,...
If anxious times the preservation fit,
Depression finds the deprivation hit,
The story of a life unseen but with
the homey feel of strife...