He’s the first one
At my den
Sitting front face
Right where he’s been

And when he’s out there
In the harsh marsh marching
Blood for his pen

I know his foot steps
Right where I’m sinking
Count on him

Like one through ten
The alphabet but then

He smells of gin
Spice or cinnamon
He’s like a ghost in quicksand
Cynical and disciplined

He’s the whole world listening
When I speak
He’s the sun peeking in!

Even when light’s missing
He’s thinking when
“Will I see you again”

As if the earth just doesn’t spin…

© Delia Ross. 2023 / @poeeternal

I got carried away with this rhyme

And maybe he’s my imaginary friend

But there’s only so many letters in the alphabet for him to appear

I speak in morse code – maybe he can hear

Is my rambling clear?

It’s freestyle dear… 🙂

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