Wake me, shake me, lay me down those lines

Un-dream, awake!
Assume I will write poetry,
ever more dear, it seems not.
We are lovers, now,
of delusions make.

I, maybe we, would wish
to unwrite ourselves out
of this now, unseeming seam.
This most unbecoming,
bad dream.

This rhyming reality, may rot!

So, this is it, what we write.
Every letter, a word starts.
And those, our sentences make.
Rest together, to paragraphs form.
Number, chapter, maybe title.
Unfold, our story book.

Under those covers we’re green,
Upright, ageless stone, epitaph, seen.


Jonathan O’Farrell

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