Today on 'The Eponymist', poetry. Deal with it.
Alone I walk these fields, these hills, these tracks,
Cross cottage corpse in breaking through the cracks,
In plots that yawn with pace of mud flecked boots.
Going over in going ‘round again.
Take soundings deep in standing water rain.
Under bowers glide. Stumble over roots.
‘Long promenade and coastal road I bikes.
Pass Mersey might in drinking in the sights.
Air ocean tales in running over land.
‘Cross quagmire thick and dense design I’m gone,
Fly fathoms deep in searching for the one,
Ever tyres whirring, shifting gears in sand.
Alive I wake from visions darkly bright,
To tell tall tales of journeys through the night,
To plasma glare no matter what the hour.
To swim in words, to breathe in prose I want,
And have my fill in drinking at the font,
And never taste the flesh of fruit turned sour.
Get it done.