It's the twentieth of December.
The Jewish minstrel strummed
his chords at 4 am and nailed me
to the stave in every minor scale.
to the stave in every minor scale.
At times, old insecurities come to the fore, hand in hand with wistful memories of past lovers, loss, death and grief. At other times, I have bitter quarrels with God late into the night about sin, redemption and child-death; and when solace will not come, in despair, I run for shelter to life's true confessional—poetry.
The London Yellow Circle Line |