On an gentle face,
Anxious its presence
Be viewed unkind,
A solitary tear
Wishing not
To interfere,
With the mien
Of a smile,
Uncertain to stay
The while,
Worrying pleasure
Suffers it be here,
For grief or cheer!
I’ve journeyed
Near and far,
But none akin
Incongruous,
To a nightmare
So bizarre,
Out of body,
In a place
Said Myanmar…
There soaring high
Astride a giant dove,
In surreal fashion
The while above,
See people scurry
In erotic stead,
Copulating clumsily
In a medieval bed,
Boldly flaunting
They be walking dead,
Swirling seamlessly
In my out of body head…
Though images do fade
They to the end resist,
As hell I chose not dwell
Nor in a black night’s mist,
So incongruous will I miss,
If again this journey tends!
Poetry on a canapé 