The poets like friends that I knew
were just passing through,
and the night tasted stranger
words that flicked fingers like flames
on my cheeks disappeared on the page.
The danger was in the remaining
in draining the last drop, but I found
I could not stop
and the cup of bitterness tasted sweet.
My secrets are trapped in this pen
which I use now and then
as and when
and at those times that I don’t
the secrets won’t be
To draw one’s last breath
one must be able to draw
that lets me out.
I should pray but
it’s too busy on the
hotline to heaven,
I can wait and god knows
© 2018, John Smallshaw.