David MurphyHappy Saturday!
Here’s a new poem.
The Great Motivator
Life, that grand adventure,
is fraught with zestful noise
of kings, paupers, alloys
strange, shaky, and unsure,
and is hung o’er by death,
clammy and ominous:
the dark, repugnant bliss
that vitalizes breath.
A fog describes itself.
The rhyme scheme is abab.
I walk upon the dank, dark moor
And drift from post to post
My feet are wisps on the damp floor
My step is softer than a ghost’s.
My hair’s like tendrils that always waft
My form is a clammy embrace
My figure’s gentle, light, and soft,
I leave no print or trace.
In fancies frightened I make faces
As I wander through the bog
Making eerie, mystique places—
You know me by my name of: Fog.
