Trespassing
Who's there?
walking among my memories
tripping over cells of humour
falling upon old war wounds.
Who's there?
Mind where you tread old thing,
these are my nerve endings,
my memories of past events.
Shoes off,
when you step inside my brain,
reading my verses, my emotions.
This is my property, be warned.
Don't squash
the frontal lobe, old thing,
I may look passive but I bite!
Be gentle on my mind.
Who's there?
Stop, trespasser, hooligan,
be quiet when you come in here
and take your hat off!
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.