W.H. Auden

W.H. Auden walks through the yard

In an ill-fitting badly kept suit,

Like a rustic brown wicker basket

With aging and withered fruit.

His face like an old weathered road map,

His jowls like a crinkled hall rug,

His nicotine fingers varnish stained,

His heart in the grip of a drug.

Eros bites his tarnished emotions

He searches his journals for love

He prays for his mother in heaven

And succumbs to the Lord God above.


Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: