House is near,
lost in traffic layers
ceased in gear
O, this dreaded rush.
taxis go, alloys steer
The queen stares! Across checked land,
Religious service rechristened at her side
Castles, limbs of stone, advance
soon shatter to ruled ruins
Sixteen hooves fight,
clash, rider spirit fiery
Royalty rooting sacrifice,
cop out & plot over coco
A fly gaped, size of me bewildering,
He smiled too,
The plane went Bang! pvff cLK
Mourn, is lost to pebbled sands or oceans deep unknown
No! Unhorse that pilot and may his piffle be dethron’d,
judge me not as thine enemy,
for I fend hopes jaws of pity so my kings face doth awak’n
The playful distractions of the mind
To swim or not to swim
Is that the question?
If it is I suppose the answer would be a ‘yes’ - So not to drown
Only an island insight now,
Not my idea of an ideal getaway
But still, it is rather peaceful.
Why is it this question that possesses my thoughts anyway?
Memories of a not so distant high school no doubt.
English with William,
How I miss your majestic free flowing prose now – ha, yeah right.
Come on! Focus
answer is still ‘yes’ - so not to drown.
If I were an English Renaissance villager,
A mere peasant amongst nobles,
It is without question I’d be suspected of witchcraft one of these days.
Perhaps for my measly education providing me with, for the time period, extensive knowledge of science ‘n that.
You’d have to atone that this becomes a very different question if on trial for Satanism.
They say a true witch would float, when immersed in a river or lake
But if your soul was pure, a true Christian, you’d sink yourself like a stone.
So would I swim? - They’d probably burn me at the stake if I did.
Butterfly! Now there’s a crazy swimming stroke.
The last time I saw a guy doing butterfly
he accidentally hit a kid in the face.
Oh it was hilarious – the kid was fine of course, except for a minor teary eyed nose bleed.
He was a rather handsome chap come to think of it.
I made it to the shore.
Avoided being eaten by a shark, so that’s good.
Survived the blur of watching shoals,
Constantly surfacing to pinch at all the fleshy parts, of gruesome, dishevelled bodies.
Once, they were simply remnants of the other crash victims minding their own business, bobbing the ocean ceiling without a care in the world.
They had no ambitions to become bloody fish food.
Mother Earth you can be a cruel parent.