Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

kept

down Hogarth’s winding vale
to past the dark, and further in

the crossroads upon us carried hackensack
roads borne of guilt
your hefty burden

to a silent place where qualms meet quench
and all words
tripped over lax of a floorboard
tripped off tonguelicks

somehow make sense

and your breath
your scream

kept

a hand, only apparent
from the corner to which
these thoughts must now lie.

Run, Rabbit, Run.

I love the internal rhyme of quench, sense, breath, kept.

Excellent. You can taste the scenes here.

Beautiful stuff! Some excellent images and phrases. Thank you! I’ve just read a few of these poems, but I’ll be back for more soon . . .