One Hundred Days In Plague Town

I met a man in Plague Town

With bird’s beak and a long black coat

He carried a cane in his left hand

He spoke to me and I quote:
‘Don’t travel far from your fire son

Go runaway and hide

For Fear stalks the streets of Plague Town

Some are ill and others have died’

So I went back home as he told me

And I sat and counted the days

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This is about when you get the feeling you've got a poem forming in your mind, then you just leave it thinking it'll be no good, and later think you should have given it a chance to develop...Anyone else ever get that feeling? 

A snapshot in time

Can be captured in words

Sometimes sublime

Or completely absurd

Emotion that longed

To be known, in a stance

A soul's way of sh...

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