1. An Author’s Thoughts
In a quagmire I wait for stability, firmer ground, that life evades me.
Each day of success gives way to what seems a day of failure.
Others envy, not knowing my life’s acidic devouring flavour.
Where are those flowers that I set out to pluck? They vanish;
They change to scorpions as I pick with naked fingers.
They sting the mind. The soul they sting. I wish they could fly out.
Fly out and each become a word, a hook, which builds a soothing book.
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