In the pixie chair

There is at times a great sadness which falls upon me and though falling it seems to rise from below me to slow me which blows me away and that is the way I cope with it.

The origins must be from the past and they are as far as I know, which is about one metre as the winds blow, the stones which I cast turned into boomerangs and coming back to slam me.

And then I feel like Yosemite Sam,
a peculiar figure
dressed as a man
with so many issues,

boxes of tissues under the bed
Folies Bergere in my head
on the screens
in my dreams
it all seems
weighty and
lately
I’ve been sinking,
drinking more from the
cup of sorrow
not worrying about where
or whether
tomorrow comes.

She always saves me
from myself
I save those memories in
eggshells.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.