Poem: Without being the Turin Shroud

Paul the poet at The Daily Provocateer

Morningish,

Squinted in hope, tarnished
& charged with staring patiently at green (the colour)

To help you sleep
She opened a book in expectation of a denizen

As if shelter or security
Was the future, writing careless of learning –

The ropes hanging in the absence
Of a tickle

In the throat a concoction,
Pressed like a leaf shaking pink blossom

Pale as face can breathe legibly, wrinkle upon wrinkle,
Without being the Turin Shroud.

That old somnambulistic monster called…

& that’s it
Until tomorrow