Forgotten Jets
She keeps a jet rolled inside a cigaretteFor when she's feeling sonic-wild
smiling like an ironic child,
Touching nose cone to the sun she says,
" At least you're good for something, how about that light."
Somedays she's sad for the ways of the world and it's hurts
Feel so close to bear as though they were her own to face
The monsters where they live it often takes the nerve she steels
I sometimes wonder how it feels to be cursed with such a bless
Impossible not to love her I simply must confess
It seems and yet, what's the time? Oh I forget.
She keeps a jet, rolled inside a cigarette. . .
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1002 times
Written on 2013-07-10 at 02:21
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