poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

One day He
tipped His top hat
and walked
out of the room,
ending the arguement.
He stomped off
saying:
I don't give guarentees.
I was left
quite alone
using up the darkenss.
I rolled up
my sweater,
up into a ball,
and took it 
to bed with me,
a kind of stand-in
for God,
what washerwoman 
who walks out
when you're clean
but not ironed.
When I woke up
the sweater
had turned to
bricks of gold.
I'd won the world
but like a
forsaken explorer,
I'd lost
my map.


Anonymous submission.

Added: 14 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 9:09 AM | Viewed: 6287 times

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