How can it be that life has somehow slipped me by
when all I’ve done, my labours worth, has gifted my
purse plenty pitiful blessings from her dust bowl.
Musing here like some woeful angler whose pole
has snapped, some niggle trips me up and coils
about dragging me down toward sleeping sodden soils,
and casting glances where all about here are leaving
for warmer climes involving cobalt fleeting weaving
sultry fantasies strung in enticing beads? Try
as I might there is no stem within this powdered hole
I seem to have dug for myself as I toil
to fathom why, after all this time, you are grieving.
© 2017 L. Tafa
Will update regularly by adding a verse to this piece as it happens. Intending to go with one hundred verses or around twenty Cantos. Cheers.