28/03/2016

#poem #poetry #amwriting 25

25

While I, not writing the great novel,
you sewed cherubs onto guaze
and read my thoughts.

You would say 'that I was drifting,
too ambiguous, of too weak a plot,'
and I would agree

burning the thoughts, seeking a new hook
I would watch with amazement
the picture grown from stitches.

'If only words could do that,'
my great un-started novel would say.