Now the only voice I hear
The voice inside my head
I am a poem, write me so I may be read.
In the darkness of an autumn night
When raindrops roll from window pane
I am formed.
Write me before I am gone
Like clouds drifting across the moon
Voices travelling away.
Write me before I am gone
Like ships that pass in the night
No trace remains at daybreak.
(c) Chris Black. November 2017.
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Family run Irish owned and operated publishing house publishing fiction, poetry and out of print Irish texts.
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Am I a poet? Maybe. What I know is that I love writing - so let me know if reading my stuff is enjoyable, too.
Canadian poet, blogger, and editor. See 'about' section for more info on me and my work.
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different times, different thoughts
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Poetry that purrs. It's reowr because the cat said so.
