Stuck to yellowing Basildon Bond their togetherness was defining. Turning, he dared to stare at her like ice. Without eyelids, she stared at the sun. One of the fortunate few, a glow upon her cheeks. Take me to a land of impossible men and become a truant, smashing down that cross on the door. The lunatic wanted to believe it even when he shunned the truth.
I believe this to be a writer and the words upon the page the greatest journey that could be ever traversed. Lunatics rarely have dull moments. Very creative, Davy. 🙂
Thanks, Terveen, and you are right, the poem is about the relationship a writer has with a page. Sometimes the written word can drive us to the point of insanity.
You had me at Basildon Bond. Beautiful.
Thank you, Alicia. I’m glad you enjoyed the poem. Basildon Bond was a blast from the past. I’m not even sure if it is still around.