Wind rocks my boat tonight,
Sitting on this bed I feel little more than whole,
The nausea creating holes in my fickle heart.

Father walks cold in the streets of Paris,
Back turned to me,
I wander further upon this ragged terrain.

Distant memories fading yet again,
For in the presence of men and wind,
My skin becomes fatal.

The very blood,
And foul.


◄ Ring Around the Roses

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adrian metcalf

Sat 25th Nov 2017 07:30

Hi Rich, thanks for the comment and your kind words.

The poem is a narrative about my father and how my poor image of him makes me feel bad about myself. As his blood runs through mine.

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Wed 22nd Nov 2017 17:19

Hi Adrian, I'm not sure I understand this. but I do really like it.


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