The File

My heart is but a drum

Upon which I beat a refrain

That speaks to you

With a somber eye’d glance to

The North wind

Who will be then and thill

The one who will rescue

Me from the haunting

Of the flood

and the vessel to hold me

will become the one to shield me from

the War, the War of Hearts

to be flared and new-comer affronted

until it all seems too

eager to pleasure itself

upon my

iron rodded smelter.

Life is too full of newcome’d feels

For itself to be yearning for the rest of the

Field to accompany it to the range

For target practise.  It takes you out

And begins to start with the file against

Your name.

For there is one.

Copyright B E Saunders 2016

(Aside:  My file contains many things:  psychotic, known associate of dangerous individuals, etc.  It doesn’t say human being, lover or anything else revolved around my habit of being alone.)


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