Wandering Lost

A metaphor stands before a wooden door,
Worn smooth from many a knocking knuckle,
And sadly turns away.
A metaphor in the tavern roar,
A metaphor in the fray.
A metaphor in the penny whore,
Who turns her eyes away.
A metaphor sits upon the floor and wonders if there’s more,
Than sawdust soaking up spilled ale and blood,
But the mess is swept away.

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Published in: on July 28, 2010 at 3:27 pm  Leave a Comment  
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