Wing Road.
Wing Road is a knifecut in the earth,
slicing from coast to mountains.
A line to be crossed with,
No guidance given.
As to benefit or cost.
So I’m standing here with thoughts ablaze,
knowing that I have to do something.
While the pull from each end of Wing road,
pins me here, like a beetle.
There are crossroads on Wing road,
and I really should have turned off.
But where the Hell am I going?
No money, no love, only time.
Glowering clouds hide the mountains,
out at sea a force four storm.
Wing road says clearly to me,
“This is it, you are here”.
The bottle is then riddled, so that the lees settles in the neck of the wine bottle... Manual riddling is still done for Prestige Cuvées in Champagne... mechanised riddling equipment (a gyropalette) is used instead. (Wikipedia)
15 comments:
Beeeeyoootiful! And my solar plexus thanks you as well. :)
There is no higher praise than solar plexoid praise.
Keep 'em comin'.
I hear the words as sung by Maryrose Crook from The Renderers.
There is no higher praise than solar plexoid praise.
I fully agree... they don't lie.
I hear the words as sung by Maryrose Crook from The Renderers.
Very kind of you say so, Smut.
I hear it from Rudolph and the Reindeers, but everybody knows I don't hear so good.
~
I thought poems were supposed to rhyme and shit.
But this one's very nice...
I thought poems were
supposed to rhyme and shit. But
this one's very nice
very sarcastic comment steal, Smut.
Poetry heals.
wv; soping, very rich.
Comment steal?!
My comment was made before mikey's; it only showed up second on account of time-zone stuff. And Southern Hemisphere.
¡dlǝɥ
You might as well blame the spiders, S.C.
Looks like they got to Substance McG, also.
~
Beautiful poem. Watch out for Rutger Hauer though.
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