The scratcher dances in my clasp
by lowing dazzle of the black.
It’s always at this tick n’ tock
that zing and zang intrude my thought.

I often scratch of sigh and swoon,
of empty beds and tearful woe.
Let none of this cast influence
on how you think I daily roam.

This scratcher does what it desires,
I’m here to but translate
its zing and zang in to a form
to which we can relate.

So eye upon me not with mourn,
for what I scratch ain’t what I roam.
And think me not misfortunate,
for sigh and swoon I’ve come to know.


Please leave feedback

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

You are commenting using your 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